Kate, if one day
you no longer recognize me,
it'll be
'cause I've grown so chill
as to look
almost standoffishly blue
and translucent,
from praying
'til I'm pale
that all those other
dudes my head grow—not
dimmer, just
more shallow
in their criticism;
and if I'm no longer plucking
the million-pound
moon from its heaven
to drop it
all-sly in your
shoe as a present (or even
fishing it out
from my casual place
sprawled on a manmade
suburban lake,
where I smoke candy
cigarettes and chug
Gatorade),
it'll be
'cause you
had said—that's okay,
you didn't
really want it—and I finally
remembered
to listen.
