The Moon and I #29

Calmly, let me know how far you’ve been.

Paved roads only ever led the way everyone else

Wanted to go, so badly they cut through

The very air they breathed so tell me

How far are you willing to go.

I base very few of my judgments so tenderly upon your answers,

I prefer refrigerator air, pantries,

The way you smile bending over a boiling soup pot.

You don’t get to be the one who figures it out.

No matter how many caves you create with your

Bare, blistering, hot-headed hands out of mountains.

No matter how many stars you pull from the sky

Pieced together by millions of photons in tubes by your doings.

Your grandmother once told you and now I’m telling you

There is little to do but love while you’re doing it all–

As long as you loved the rainforest,

You may as well slice it leaf to leaf with your teeth.

Breathe the smoke out of your lungs so that you have room in the

Cozy-hazed, tender-night to speak humidly.

Try not to let it offend you.

Move your hands backwards on your pants so you

Can’t feel them shake.

I would like to take a silver probe and

Physically unnerve you underneath the oak trees.

Pull apart each receptor, each reaction, under sunlight’s surgical light–

Maybe then you could finally and gloriously feel.

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