i have worked so hard and come a long way. i have lost much of my self along the way. 
i have journeyed hard to arrive in this place where you are:
this place where you can see streetlights and intersections and signals
and i am blind, deaf, mute. will you pull me through this city?
will you tell me who i am? after years, maybe i am willing
or, too tired to say no, too broken to work against the knowing,
learning hands of someone else. i wonder, does the work go to waste? 
i have been so afraid. i have been hard pressed to protect and preserve
these last pieces of my self. do i cede myself to this landscape?
what could that grant accomplish? and where i am land—traversed, seismic,
built and rebuilt in a thousand ways—you are
water, blood of my veins, spit of my mouth, working tracks
into the world around us. the river that is never quite tamed.
i could build bridges but i have known many storms, will not extend myself
for structures that can be torn down.
you make a canyon out of me. i am all echoes,
a long, low coyote howl of loneliness and discontent.