To the gentle Vaseline children in the woods,

I commend to you the moon’s dreams.

We rock ourselves to sleep on an ocean of loneliness

like half-dried socks in the dryer.

What am I trying to say?

I go through a million versions of myself

and days pass faster the harder I travel,

faster than sunshine and hungry mosquitoes,

fast as words across the dictionary pages.

I travel hard and far these days

passing by little libraries, stairs and murals and railroad tracks,

where the distance stretches like a headband

to the beaded land where the dawn never leaves.

The bicycle I once used is older and waits in the garage.

The new bicycle is riding me

under an aurora borealis

that is partly myself and partly clouds

and partly everyone I meet

 and want to give myself to.