maybe it’s because you
haven’t traveled the path littered
with broken glass and stepped over
carcasses of despair, maybe it’s
because your eyes shine bright with moon dreams
and maybe it’s the silly things
like running naked through parks and mooning
old farmers riding ancient mechanical mules,
dancing until your skin turns liquid,
or doing that “flip” thing with your hair curled like fingers...
I don’t know...
maybe it’s just you calling me “poppi” that makes me
love you, young bones.
From the Collection