We don't grow up really but we are very old, and nothing gets by us. You never forget the voices of angels. Dying hemlocks. My father neither read nor cared about poetry and somehow I remain his son.
Men crossing the desert to find answers to hard questions. Cloths we use to hide our face. In the morning the light is soft and pink and full of water. Hide and seek was never a fun game, I was never free of the existential crisis at its center.
Old men remembering kisses. Who can forget Carl Sandberg's little cat feet, who among us will mock his boundless sincerity? Folded-over grass where yesterday a fawn rested, waiting on its mother. Phases of the moon, chapters of a book.
Age is an engine. Sliding around vinyl seats, sticking to them in summer, leaning out the window singing made-up songs. God squints to see us, makes us out far below on what appears to be quilt, but is really the Irish countryside. Washing bricks, remembering growing up.
Crossing boundaries as if they are not there and wondering, wait, are they there? Listening to salsa while writing changes the length of the sentences and seems to privilege multi-syllabic words. What do you give the one who has everything?