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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.