TO DEPOSIT YOUR LETTERS THROUGH THE MAIL SLOT OF A GARBAGE CAN ON MARKET STREET
i stand like a sick child, here
before the large & the small…
a tea kettle whistles in a kitchen,
a fog horn yawns in the bay. &,
clearing my throat, “we have a thousand thoughts
we cannot convey” - so let’s not be so humble.
bring back the deep sleeps of autumn,
the slow dreams that just peel off the lines.
unpack the old boxes we stacked on nerves,
on all the entangled, unverifiable crimes.
& now, slowly.
& now, suddenly,
does life feel the same
as being propelled forward,
that moment,
on an embarking train?
