where the heart of me is still a child
running a stick across the fence slats for the rhythm of it--
hearmehearmehearmehearme--
this body was bred for insistence.

with hands flecked in paint colors and ink
we meet in the newsprint, uncovering relics,
stories wrapped in stories.
the dust is in my pores, my nose.
i welcome my self home.

the creek where all my dreams waded idly in the murk:
slow, with many penchants for variation.
the bridge where we dropped bright yellow leaves,
letting chance dictate our outcomes.
why did we stop screaming into the train whistles?
i still remember how to pick leeches off.

we will play those games again, you
and i and cassiopeia, the lukewarm sky
she retires in.
an opening where we can go together:
where, under no obligation, you point me forward.