I’m always haunted by the birds I was born with.
All signs point to:
what if my problem is, I want to be there and I want
to be there and I want to be there.
Instead I stand in the ring I started in and set a fire.
I don’t know how to go deeper than this: falling back into the ravine I just climbed out of.
If laughter is a hallway, I want to be standing at both ends.
All I can say is, I’m still somewhere in Tennessee
but it all looks different now. Same birds I think. Different song.
This lake all fenced off. I’m still here, covered in mud,
looking. Here’s a new path.
Same sun, different light. Little ferns
yelling. Vine teetotaling. Not sure this is a path at all.