These half paragraphs,
These teasers from Act II,
Are all I have to collect
And put into jars, meticulously labeled
When I examine them
I am wishing
That you are some magnetic stranger
With a void for me to fill
That our grass is the same hue
That humans, like trees,
Sprout roots, burrow deep
Synthesize sun, soil, stories.
I have not always been present
But how else could it have happened?
Someone had stolen your lunch money
And your mother had your downcast eyes
Years later, your will is like water
Flowing with the moon’s decree
But your thinking is high-minded
With so much open sky to gather
I can only imagine
You must tell yourself these kinds of stories, too.