Under the curls of that cornfield; Mahomet, Illinois
The other side of Alaska, Summer
The time I rested my head on her shoulder, in the shadow of her hair, a place all its own
In the confession booth, maybe 9 years old, Long Island
Under the rainclouds, appreciating the quiet & the endless, simple grass—Everglades
My dog, finding her way to me at night; no matter where we were sleeping, Florida
The monk who listened to me for a long time; I take her words with me everywhere
My birthday, thirty-four lights
That cornfield, it must be harvested by now
Alaska, folding back to itself, shining gold in its glory summer
The woman I tried my best to love, moved on
An older version of that 9-year-old girl, she’s standing across from a Virgin Mary statue; she is in a parking lot in Pensacola—and yes, she has been forgiven
The everglades, still quiet, but welcoming the fire-orange grasshoppers into their forever fields
My dog, in the place all dogs go
& the monk who listened—she is still there, listening
as things disappear & reappear; the moon fading to lace & then shining bold red neon; or
even our memory of the Earth as it welcomed the moon’s shadow mid-day, as the moon’s
small disk of a body glided over the sun—not to obscure it, but to love it, & to protect it
