2016
I can’t open the atlas of my wanting any faster
than its once-waterlogged pages will let me.
But we’re sundried things now anyway,healing herbs so we should
know how to be patient.
In the stinging nettle and wildflower
outskirts of my body
I know the outdoor song of the
future will find me.
I can hear it wailing up through the
lightning sometimes when I let my mind empty out
into the air around it.
And in the deepest gardens of my heart,
I’ve forgiven myself and nobody else.
Where I was once an underwater maze I
believe there is dried grass and
open space.
Beneath countless or
uncounted and unnamed galaxies, I
laugh and never
have to explain.