To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.
I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.
You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.
May my silences become more accurate.
So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
By daily dying, I have come to be.