We could live in maybes.
Standing in the woods at night, an unspecified
age and way, but always the past.
Speaking aloud into the darkness, the trees
somehow made of sounds, implied.
The courage to speak aloud there in the woods
in the darkness alone, real words spoken
out loud, meant to be heard.
We could live in the future.
Sitting at the desk, on the chair, this
furniture all gathered and handmade from the past.
Typing onto the plastic, the smooth lines, the thin
machine. Typing into the new space, electronic
and layered and fictional. Early gray morning in winter
on the laptop computer, tired but too amazed
to let it pass without record.
We could live in each other.
The sense, the way it starts a shining
in my stomach, the barest thought of you and the
idea, the possibility, as strange and as fleeting
as words in the woods and visions of the future,
that when our eyes met we gave each other something,
even if only a shining and words to make
poems from.
