One day I will look down to see the same unfamiliar ruddy tanned knuckles instead of these bird’s wings I have grown to rely own. Gratefully, through love and resistance and love as revolution, today is no such day. I fear discovering that I will have lost chances but I ask myself what I will do about it. But I am doing. I am doing. I am constructing valor but from stilts in the water I cannot swim. No, no, I’m certain of my lock and key on every twelve months, the closure of faces and said words. Closing a door on time cracks and life tracks. When every poem is identity repair, every fire can be something I chew on and swallow, even in the heat, even in the summer. I may never be done with trying to meet you wherever you are.