twenty-three.

I have forgotten the words
that I wrote this morning. I stitched
them together while
walking, using the
broken blister on
my heel as an anchor. The pieces
of sentences slid into
each other like a hymn, like
fireworks. The phrases I've
forgotten
sang quietly of
promises, and the clean good
green smell of birch leaves and
poison sumac, and the
way the sun hissed in my
ears and buzzed along
my fingers. They were the words I
wanted to offer today, and
if only I'd written them down. If
only I'd pushed them out into the world.
If only.