We’re unstuck

but not free.

I can only say

we ping

in the most

alluring way,

like pinballs

amassing

penalties.

It hurts if I push with the left

so I let go of the right burden

and I feel lighter…

but not graceful,

more like a mushroom

blooming and spewing spores

like words like sweet toxins

to make the time float higher.

I like when we rest.

I like soft moss beneath my feet.

I like how you pick up my thread

when I unravel.

A day like Rittenhouse Square, winter, 1993.

Smelling of subway steam,

unwashed homeless,

drafty theater with fresh popcorn,

pizza, cookies, new books,

wine, Old Bay, horse,

reefer, Tastycake frosting, and fatigue.

Looking like Currier & Ives after a bender.

Feeling like a cozy burial vault.

Not to be opened until middle age.

Insistent sun

bleaching hope

into fossils and fables,

our balled-up thunder

rolls over tender valleys

and we stop trying

to see the ideal

in someone else;

light crackles static

all over the floor

up through fingers

pushing everyone away –

you’re better off

without my crazy times

though I’ll miss the embraces

for what they were: grounding

and entirely made-up.