I want to write frankly and without pretense,
I'm young and sort of inexperienced,
But I'll tell you since you've asked:
I have thirty-nine hidden poems about rivers.
Crying poetry distracts me from tinnitus,
Frissonic song evokes inner wants in me;
Ants in my shoe, bites on my knee,
Bends in my spine, quavers in my soul
Remind me of how imperfect I am.
        I've seen a glimpse of stoic vision
        And I'm appalled, to tell the truth.
        I want to give you words of wisdom,
        But all I can muster is my own dumb youth.