I was driving through Kirkwood, NY
on a Sunday morning.
Scenic lines of strip clubs
dot the highway next to
the abandoned insane asylum
(live! girls! DO NOT ENTER)-
Rusted train tracks bend
and shimmy along state route 17-
when I think about me
I don’t think of anything.
I listen to the whisper of
melting snow- the snap of spring and
a muddy surrender under my feet
I imagine I am a quiet place, a still pond,
a nook to sit and think, absent of complexity
and try to drown this sinking feel...
In my dreams,
I am living an Italian Summer.
I wake up to a soft breeze,
Sending vibrations through my veins,
And warm beams of sunlight,
Thrusting through the curtains,
Bidding my slumber goodbye.
I slide my body through the curtains
Guarding the balcony,
And take in...