I never grew up with you.
Still, I’m a lot less nervous than last year.
The rustic reverb from falling
Stones below—here,
That sound means two
Together for longer than a single rood.
Our residency is bound by gratitude.
A mythicological mailbox—
“Mythic-” as in magic,
“-ologi-” as in discipline—
Guards the shade
Of the almost Evergreen, liquid trees.
Do you want to meet the mycelia with me?
I haven’t watched you sleep.
The sacred words my teeth hold
Are in these journals, where strangers,
With the stark sheen of your brow
On theirs, before you, whispered a Lover’s prayer.
And even if you weren’t here,
It’s still for you.
A plethora of pages with quirks
And creases; Crude drawings and
Sweet nothings, lavender and fresh linen,
The Tropic of Cancer and the Gulf of Mexico.
I remember their prophecy, which is to say,
You’re like me if I were you.
I don’t know your middle name.
Flint spurs spark and I ponder
What it’s like to be the smoke
In your lungs, somewhat envious. Can I skinny-dip
In your venules, ventricles, and arteries?
Follow the current of your blood
In the same vein you followed me to this cliff?
Our heads rest on tree roots
As the last leaf crosses from
Recto to verso. Here, truth is a tesseract—
Refractive and four-dimensional.
The seemingly endless chartreuse faces of
The Housatonic river, they’re all yours.
I am glad you are here.
for Blake