to the end of cul de sac
on bikes we picked off the lawns
of sleeping factory dads
to keep our chins off of the brim
of parents’ porcelain
when no more teen age
i’d hit the road with you
til it’s black eyed and tooth loosened
walmart, taciturn down your light is grating
all my eggshell space
or compensate for venetian blinds double dating there above my sill
as adult I will sue the life from your
astral beacon could afford
to keep us afloat for a while
taciturn down your voice for me
taciturn down the light
desperate tacit eternity
taciturn in for the night
a trek across the formerly unfamiliar, fortunately puddle-ridden forest of the literary tradition
I seem to have since stopped, stooped, stared, and found myself anew at each body of water’s edge.
The forest of literature looks aged and fixèd, but grows to consume those those who wish to define its borders or ignore its presence.
Thank you for leading me here. I think I’d like to stay and explore.