your six-string pickings are familiar like little red wagons
and white gravel drives or pedaling past barn skeletons
to Shirley’s grave in summer, self-taught on the few days left
to be young.
.
at fifteen I asked the nighttime forest to adopt me
into a broken clock religion of firefly rites
and boundless chapels housing windows shining
across midnight ceilings. I was baptized
by the high sweet voices you gave me
and crucified the glaze on my eyes,
throat ringing harmony.
.
for years I could only love the things you loved
without hesitance, my heart was your heart
and it walked around outside me, burning
and humming strains of genius.
.
if there’s only room for one song when my
synapses are misfiring finally,
I want it to be yours:
.
d a b g d
f# g a d
c d g b d g
a
