LETTER WITH A DAREDEVIL
I never learned to hold things in. I say the first words
I can. I write every entry in every dictionary
until rushing rivers rush me away. Search and Find
the meaning of context, patience, elucidate.
When the libraries close, I sneak back in
and look up good border-towns to call home.
Lend me a barrel, and I’ll hide inside
while Niagara looms. Over the top
I hover for a brief moment—the way
jumping looks like flying, arms outstretched,
until the collapse. Whole worlds fade and fruit
in that moment; a multiplicity of lives slinks
between my corneas. I bob all the way into town.
They give my name to streets, and I give it to
whomever I meet.