I suppose everything on earth has an extraterrestrial meaning.
To leave, first you have to stay.
And to say it’s never too late, you have to be right here.
Life, a free fire, freewheeling I, gambling doors of a home in the dark night,
barefoot roaring through the glisten of bright lights,
with the premier of escaping circling my eyes,
and my eye sockets giving bed to sunglasses,
and my shoulders blanketed by leather jackets,
and there is a beautiful feeling, there is that, to sing off the din of doubt
and to raise a thousand whereabouts, in the newspapers.
Beneath the grounds on which I venture though the quiet darkness,
the prospects start whirring, begin rattling to welcome me.
And I ride through their palpitations, I ride through their excitement, I ride through the danger, I ride towards a stranger.
I promise. I promise.
The magazine tearing of grief, happiness, coffee cups, and lushly layered advertisements, follow me through this closing verve. They can keep up.
- To Sarah Abraham