When you say, what do you do? I say, I sit and remember how to be a newborn. I sit and think about the etymology Of the word tired.
When you say, where do you go? I say, I go where the bubbles form, Diving into their soapy mouths And rarely escaping their prismatic curves Before they pop.
When you say, where are you from? I say, Mississippi mud and thick air, Bulging with the weight of cicada songs-- The land where the rivers meet.
What you don’t understand (or maybe you do) Is how long it takes to excavate dinosaur bones; You think feeling bones under toe will suffice. But without dusting and assembling and Plugging holes with speculation We know nothing of the life of that old being.
And my clothes are still in a suitcase. And my toenails are still too long. And my soul still goes rogue (on occasion), Slipping under the weight of the window To dance around a fire with She-Wolves. You don’t even know about my coffin of bones.
When you say, where will you end? I say-- a cottage by the sea? an Aspen leaf? choking on dunes under river-weight? a cave; a kernel of greatness? A pair of leathery palms. But, really, I say nothing and laugh As if time is irrelevant.