2002
I am twenty-two and I,
growing more and more frightened by things
that once brought me wonder.
People talk about things as if they know
exactly what’s going on and I fear I may be
the last one in the know. You say metaphors
as if you’ve lived lives as a tire swing, or a wooden
bench. Your childhood hazed with cliches of
apple pie and late evenings with your father catching
lightning bugs. I’m afraid I’m not going where I’m
needed most.
People tell me things as if I’m the only one
in the world who will understand. I think I
should take some lessons in secrecy. There’s something
to say about the tenderness of being held for
hours by stars that have somewhere, years ago,
burnt out,
But continue to make a bright place for you.