When I read
poems from the past,
I barely understand them.

I try, yes—
but they are minds
from another time.

It takes time
to connect with them.

Then I imagine myself:
will they, in the future,
read the poems I write to you
and understand
anything at all?

We go where the wild things are,
When life is too slow to stand.
There’s a place just on the brink,
Of reality and dream,
Where we go to dance.
There’s a place on earth for all of us,
So never let your colors weather.
We’ll all be here soon,
Where the wild things are!

Midnight
One
Two
Three
In the morning
On my roof
Half moon
Cold air
Blanket on my legs
Tears
Hot
Down my face
Heaviness
In my chest

And suddenly
It’s one AM
and I’m not tired
But before
I was asleep by ten
Now I'm
Home by midnight