when you arrive at the perfect piece,
it sits in your mouth like a kiss,
a deliciousness you wish you could
hold onto forever. sometimes i
wait at the bus stop, and the big
whoosh lumbers up, and i wave
it away. i’m waiting, i say, but not
for the bus. for what, i cannot
articulate; but when it comes, it’s
like going back through the tunnel
and finding the seed from which
you sprang, and everything else
just falls away, and the song you sang
as a child rings like a bell in its wake.