birthday as we try

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

until then

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

Books for the Einsam

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.