It doesn’t go away.
It gets stronger. Bring me back to life.
I am dying in parts.
Blue Rock off of Exit 15,
through the woods in
Harlemville. Water so cold,
I could hardly stay dry.
The summers were crowded,
I could never get myself to jump
off the falls near my house, but I watched
the man whose body was closer to God’s
than Adam kick a cloud of leaves up
when he flew. We never went back there.
I climbed on rooftops and left for Paris
and it doesn’t go away just gets stronger.
This is not a prayer. The mystery of morning
close to ocean, the spine of story opened
to climax, the rot of moss after rain.
Some things are holy as lightning.
A peach in summer, pregnant with
pit and pulp, hanging from branch
is a prayer. What happens to fruit
that never gets picked? Does the ground
learn to eat what it birthed?
Wake up what is dead in me,
early in the morning before birds.
It will not go away. It gets stronger.