how about instead of beginning, we continue from what always existed inside us. we were both just waiting to meet.

To no one in particular, the poet says:

If only I could lose all my words, soak them in bleach of forgotten cries so that when I speak them again to you, they will still have their roots dripping as I press them against your chest. Our mouths will stink of soil and earthworms. We will know nothing of scars or bruising or words like provocation. Everything will be dressed in unworn rhythm. How much does all this cost? How much to traumatize a memory so distinctly that it no longer howls. 


They were there all along. These roots. These birds panelling the sidewalks like decorative creatures flying in and out of the NYC trash heaps. These feelings of something new brewing.

Winter is long gone, even though it refuses to exit stage left, so it remains like a stalker, fondling the wind that fondles you. Even so, it is Spring now. Windows unlatch and humans disrobe.

Head to the tree where you wept last spring, letting twelve pounds of salt exit from your body that you fed to the ducks that they leaked into the lake.

Carve your name into the sunlight.

Kiss the one who arrived on a Sunday and smells like every book you ever fell in love with because each chapter revealed itself in increments and the glossary practically impregnated your mind.

Eat something from the ground. Do not wash it. Risk a tickled throat from some New York soil.

Dig nude toes into the bark of that tree. Tell it your dirtiest secrets; it will hide its giggles in each knot of wood. Sing out loud even if others surround you. Do not apologize for being off key or mispronouncing instrumentation.

Take something away from here to last you until summer. Let it come apart in your pocket. Give it permission to become something else….

…as you are.