you were blowing out cake candles
with your red lips;
you were too young for us to know,
it was not a photograph dad would have
displayed: it was stuck in a book in a drawer
in a year. and now, so many thousands of
days later, i’m sitting in a car crying,
listening to the world turning, my child walking
away, the houses foreclosing.
god is not one of us;
god is all of us.
if we could put our
the whole world,
we would feel it—
the story of
the story of the
spiral pearly gate
opening and leading
us up and out of our
around and around in
remembrance circles until
we could not do even one thing
i’m just warming up,
and so is the day;
sometimes it takes a
when you can love something at its coldest
then you can say
it is real.
anyone can fall in love
on a sloppy summer night;
but where are you in the arctic light of morning?
my body is one long bone
in need of being cracked.
(will this this be the last?)
they say when you dream of houses
you are dreaming of your selves;
i keep dreaming of forgotten rooms,
hidden realms, my parent’s walk-in
closet, split-level bedrooms splayed out
like shelves of lovers coming forward
to read me the sonnets of my sins.
so delicately thin, this line of what was
and what is to come—
we are all so old;
we are all so young:
tunnels and tunnels
through which to run.