Why am I always only young in retrospect?
And reckless, digging for pens in the pockets of moving cars
as if grief or delight were urgent and would end.
Well, I remember when the ceiling of the earth would fall,
a great grey wall of cloud
pressing down upon our shoulders
and down on the tops of our heads,
when the earth rose up to greet our bony soles
and not to mock the weight of hanging flesh,
before desire became our enemy, before we stopped
letting empty stomachs feel like endless pits
and our hearts rise up in tightening throats,
and our eyes roam far past crowns of stars and heads of state
into truer, darker lands
of wish, and myth, and I remember days
when a blunt pencil or a dull and simple mind was no excuse.