when I was a boy, I stood on my head
and imagined the sky was a great blue sea—
one in which I could never drown.
But that sky swallowed me whole, long ago.
Now, so many years later, I stare
into the ivory light of my bedroom window
and ponder the stranger I’ve become.
Searching for wherever
that boy might be.
I return to a fork in an old, familiar road long since
visited, which at one time was a great mystery
to me. A trace of what was once me still lingers there.
And when the long limbs of the tall trees
stir the slowly moving light of day—suddenly
the past comes rushing at me like a whirlwind.
And I wonder how it is that I’ve kept
so many fields and rivers and valleys and
lakes and bluffs and waterfalls and mountains
and caves and quarries and deep woods and
bridges and railroad tracks and abandoned roads
and stairwells and secret alleys and rooftops
jarred up in a
And I wonder what at all I learned
about life while lounging
in the high branches of magnolia trees,
or in the backseat of some old, smoky jalopy,
or rummaging through the wiry steel hills
of the city scrap yard, or running with the
bushy-tailed fawns into cold, naked woods,
or banging on the piano
at that party.