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one very long song

Updated: Apr 30, 2023

everyone is awake and humming along to something.

we've been singing it since yesterday—

when the kettle flipped and the water went all warm.

i heard it first a few miles out—as the day grew

volume did, too—a little march across

the country. everyone singing several states apart,

heading towards the center. someone

in Missouri counting wildflowers: a girl,

strange shorelines, and every grain of sand.

distinctly you, just above the ground, quick

flutter, light heart, tracing flight patterns

and curves of blackbirds. they were singing, too

so many joined for a glimpse of swift rain and never-ending field.

we stood there, in whatever makes a field gold. all voice and certainty.

in whatever makes a woman grow—or the swell feeling in my chest.

there is abundance right below my left lung. i feel it when i'm breathing.

sometimes the noise is too loud; the space is small, and i can't recall

my own name, only the one given to me when i arrived. abundance

in togetherness, where the candles only brighten an inch of vast map before you.

and what of the dark canvas?

what i'm trying to say is, i like drawing circles with my feet in the sand, or driving

long ways by neatly abandoned churches in the deep south. some wrecks

exist everywhere. i like being carried

upstream by a strong current. infinite

drift and rot-averse. the lines converge,

and afterwards, continue on their way.

some wise drawing. i want to catch

the water of a wider ocean, still, i want

to be a different shade of green. i want

to carry my clothes in a small bag for a while

and drive.

(if you want, we can go—we'll

grab each sealed envelope,

air them out, the cellar

door swung, an invitation

opened on the warmest day in 2004.)


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