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.