Winner of the William and Ivy Saylor Prize 2015
Having ridden this black traffic wave
of ethanol and fumes,
this bad habit, following me,
of never being in the moment,
I still don’t understand why some of the prettiest towns
have some of the ugliest names.
Or why we don’t find shapes in the trees,
like we do for the clouds.
Or why the night just feels so much better than the day
when you’re walking,
but when we’re driving with the windows down and
the warm wind blowing against our arms,
things just seem so true.
I can’t say why I’m a thinker like,
living for a thought is what I’m best at.
I can’t say why a candle’s orange and blue flickering flame
melts away my resilience and hesitation for love.
Or why the moonlight veils the worst part of my existence.
Or why the swirling, slow burning smoke of a cigarette
awakens the deepest, most hidden parts of me.
Or why, at times, when you feel cornered and pinned down,
surrounded with no chance,
you still feel like everything in this world is beautiful
and you’re right where you’re supposed to be.
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