Every day after
I find a gilded hair
in a different spot.
You obviously left a trail
for me to follow,
leaving discernment behind
like breadcrumbs to be swept
up by the birds.

That is how I find myself in
mucky caves once a year,
disappointed to be left
alone to squeeze out
the drip drip that collects in
my hat, the memories.

As a child in my
mother’s van back in the day,
I’d hold my breath each time
the horizon disappeared as we
careened across the overpass
on the way home.
For those fleeting moments I’d fly,
feeling like an astral dust bunny
skating on Saturn’s rings
beholden to gravity’s grasp.

That’s what love feels like
as an adult;
a yank in my navel lifts me until
I lose sight of the ground.
Goading clouds taunt me into flight
but the weight of another’s Soul
pulls me back underground
into filthy reality.

For some this happens just once,
for some it never comes.
Am I lucky, then, to be such an
avid spelunker?
Whom else would chart depths
so damp and dark to chase
unknowable shadows,
following fictitious signs
rather than choosing the stars?

– november 2020