I step into my closet, 

looking for a dream,
some remnant
of a shopping trip 
I’ve forgotten.
Perhaps a butterfly
slipped
from my shoulder
into the pocket 
of the shirt
I wear to rehab.
It hasn’t been that long 
since I was extra large.
Even now the waists 
hang loose,
pants slipping
if you don’t hold on. 
But it’s the sleeves
that overwhelm me, 
fabric pooling,
catching light,
turning to a kind 
of beacon,
casting shadow
into the forest
of my closet,
where once
I believed 
I could hide.