It is not enough to go back,
cast the world in our pillow-sleeves.
We yearn for our five-year-old
bodies, the bending night
and her tiny opera
of streetlights and bedroom windows.
We see children running
in strange cities and we make to grab
them by the soul
explain in a language we can no longer remember
they will beg for these moments
again, even the strange ones. Especially those.
We try demonstrating
that without the perfect camera
of a mind that would supersede ours
there is a nightly arson
in the forests of our memory, and it is criminal
how little we dredge from the shoreline.
I do not believe we emerge
from the pond of our youth
but rather that we leave the quiet of air
for the inexplicable sadness
of the water, realizing only too far from the surface
the perfect stillness of land,
that we are evolving
that we have left behind a sky
and forest we do not understand.