i love that your
hands have touched so
many things- rivers and
valleys and canyons -that
you have made sure the
earth is not your stranger.
please pretend i am the
streets of madrid or the
stone walls of paris.
please know my skin
the way you know how
our planet sighs during
all her seasons. please
love my rivers, my
valleys, my canyons.

and while you were
a willow he is an oak,
a redwood, a maple,
a sequoia- the mightiest
tree- standing humbly
and unassuming in my
background until i
stumbled over one of
his roots and decided
to follow them back to
find leaves that were
so sweet, so smooth,
so familiar on my tongue.

i don't
k n o w
how to
rely on
anyone
b   u   t
myself.

this should
f e e l  l e s s
f  o  r  c  e  d*
you should
feel more
right
.

between psalm 1 & 2
I asked you what it was
like to confess without
a proper priest because
confessing to yourself
was more like admitting
and admitting was usually
an internal affair, something
that could be done without
much shame, after all, you
                                     could hear my thoughts,                          right?
well, I'm not entirely
sure that's all true
but I got down on
all fours with my arms
stretched as far as they
could go, head practically
between my knees and would
you believe, (You Would) that
I started to cry? Because, would
you believe, (You Would) that
for a moment you were there
with your toes at my finger-
tips.