I don’t know how to let go.
I’ve never let go in my life.
And I don’t even know how to write.
How to describe the clean sky morning,
the damp smudge of ink on paper,
the heart’s incline. Desire and
the thudding of feet on pavement, on cobblestone.
The cobbler. A pretentious glance, a sheepish foolish dance,
three biscuits. A toss and a catch and a weariness. A strange
disjunction of tears through a computer screen. Being seen.
Being welcomed across a room. Being spoonfed. Being led.
Being piled with seven small tasks and a last enjoinder
to be genuine.
Unicorns and music at pranzo. Mauro and Enia
with two pieces each. Anna Lardani’s extra kiss, extra squeeze.
A grace penny at Sidis. Proud
of otherwise perfect change.
Sweetness of closeness and ache
of estrangement. Balding. Better
than he would expect
under the circumstances.
A long, long hug.
A red wax chipmunk holding magic beans
in the cubby. We all liked the trumpeters.
And the firecrackers on the little boys’ bellies.
Art and faith. Humility.
“Free yourself from the chains around your neck, O captive daughter of Zion.”