For J's birthday, February 2007
Hidden behind books, I turned eighteen:
A moth tightly cocooned in novels, stacked
Papers & that fluttering, fractured feeling;
Patiently waiting for my world to crack.
Yet I peeked through its open gash surprised,
Beholding long paths, tender arbours, bright
Days folding, fresh as flowers, into night;
A warmer world remade by widened eyes.
Yes, we are flailing on delicate wings,
Journeying under the moon’s follow-spot,
Articulating imperfect dreams &
Making shadows of the jokes flight forgot.
Each shadow clears. Each year I see more sky,
Staring star-crossed at each new place to fly.
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