These days,
I feel like so much is happening inside of me -
there is a marching band inside
my body and it is trying to
March, March, March itself out
of my ribcage,
but it is already May.
There are fireworks
waiting to be set off, but there is
no one there to light the fuse of
whatever is inside of those things
anyway... Light, and summer and
a need to be with the stars,
to be like the stars -
after all, they're what we wish on.
Soon, I will find a match from
somewhere deep inside of myself and
there will be explosions of
poetry,
of words with
real weight -
the kind of stuff that strong bones and
muscles are no match for.
Because there is a
power
that hides itself in the rain.
It locks itself behind the sun and
in our neighbor's yards,
picking their flowers.
Last night,
I lay on the damp grass-
the unforgiving earth,
the substance of the gods -
and looked to their home in the
black-velvet sky.
It is flawless.
Fireworks want to be like the stars,
everyone wants to be like the stars.
We still make wishes on them,
but really,
they don't owe us anything.
Everyone wants to be an angel someday,
but really,
most of us already are.