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Stars cannot see their own constellations

and connections are invisible to those involved.

You must trust there is another,

connecting us to each other.

You don’t have to see it to believe it.

But,

if you must–

look up.

Everything

is reflecting you.

Before You

Before you is hard to remember.

I cannot seemingly separate myself

from who I was and

who I am now. Or even how long I will stay this way.

Those folks on park benches, observing the

world through accents and footnotes

might see me differently–

a subtle release of the shoulders or

a loosing of the jaw. All just revelations I refute in the mirror to myself.

Or,

perhaps the world has changed.

Perhaps, everything else

has changed

except me.

This notion feels both isolating

and empowering,

reminiscent of love I suppose.

Before you, I held the future

like a wallflower held a dance.

But you threw it at me nevertheless.

And I ate it and puked it up.

And laughed and rolled

in its beauty,

and the mess of my becoming.

Before you, I cannot seem to remember

how deeply I feared myself and

what it meant to avoid my gifts.

Before you, the edge of my life

was my death. My own chosen escape.

Always waiting with patience.

Before you, I was a son of a bitch in ways I thought

I was great. This was a sad, and now laughable, misconception.

And all of this rubs me the wrong way,

it feels strange to say before you,

because all those folks with folded arms may see my shoulders

differently. And they are not wrong–no one is.

To them you were never really here.

But to me, you will never really leave.

One Day

One day this body will fail me,

these feet will fall to the ground

like shoes by the door

after work.

This mind of mine

will wander to places

no one can follow.

These eyes will look glazed over

in a glare

of oblivion.

I won’t remember you perhaps?

This will make you cry.

One day, someone will not

recognize me.

Maybe,

it will be you.

If you look in all these places

for me, I will not be there.

You’ll have to remember.

And you will forget.

It’s okay.

One day, time will have its way with me

and I will only exist in you,

as a memory of the heart.

I’m writing poems now

to remind you

when.

Moments

There are moments,

and in them they hold everything.

Like currents flowing around corners of canopied forests.

Smoothing rocks and rusting metals,

carrying things back to before

they began.

A sacred seed reborn,

traveling beyond the distance of its own death.

A lilting leaf afloat, alive,

breathing its own life from inside.

All these things

disappear into a darkness.

All these things

create something new.

A moment holds everything

you’ve ever asked for.

Ask it anything now–

it answers, always,

true.

A Blanket

She claims all people.

She lies out like a blanket

for me,

offering her warmth

if I wish.

Or I can

howling at the moon.

It does not phase her grace.

Either way,

she will always be there.

Here.

Everywhere,

like the music

only

silence can carry.

When I’m gone

bring me back in buckets

filled to the brim with water.

Let me spill and spew over the sides

as you carry me

with your shaky hands.

When I’m gone

bring me back in the crash of a wave.

Let me roll and fold over myself, recreating my death

in a sacred dance with the shore.

When I’m gone

bring me back as this rain.

Let me be what you need

until you

need me again.

When I’m gone

I will return.

Look for me in the water.

Let the sea flow and fool me,

let the skies tumble to the ground.

Let the starched earth squeeze me

as life screams out in all its sound.

Let my body be a vessel,

let my spirit be a guide.

Let me be,

entirely,

in all my misery,

for beauty too, here resides.

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