Yellow.

Somewhere in America, this afternoon
there is someone who believes
in the pure wonder of possibility,
seeing the yellow leaves around white trees
through the fogged window.

There is something on the mountains
either fog or smoke, between us
you who believes and I
who knows.

Recently I have fallen in love with demolition,
the smoke rises from the earth and separates.
It has proven everything to me
about forgetting, and how we can.

Every length of time that is possible,
less then the time I have been alive –
I have lived them all.

At twenty-two years old,
in between my day job and
the parts I save for you, and you, and you
I am a person and a poet
always knowing how to say words
when I am quiet,
what to say when I can’t find how.