To the spot where the log burns blue?
From the side of your mouth, the word heartwood falls out
and inside of that, a Tupperware containing fog.
It’s mixed pickles—everyone loving the deli guy
but no one remembering his name.
I feel like I am him. I fall down like a fountain,
scrape both knees. I learn photosynthesis
is when your arms go around me.
In those days, we called it Julia Mountain
because Julia loved the mountain
and the mountain loved her too.
Then she moved to Kalamazoo.
Once, I was a child and once I was a bug.
Once, you spilled gallons of milk by virtue of spilling
just a little milk each day. I was the whole Pulaski Skyway,
crossing and uncrossing my legs.
It came to me eventually, his name was Jeff,
and like Jeff, I’ve been forgotten
in the fold of a stranger’s wallet.
The tarp flaps its dream at us and for a second,
I’m in the canopy during gym class—
you count to five, and we all run in.
The wind ruffles our pockets and we lift up our eyes.
Pulling your head through the sweater hole,
you stretch out the morning’s light.
The day goes rising, wiggles its ears.