What if I wanted
to be in the
mountains,
Where all the stars are
connect the dots:
moths chase your
tail lights
and the cold wind
coming in through the
car window smells like
dirt and wet pine?
I’d hope to curl up on
pine needles and call it a
lifetime.
I'd pick chunks from orange fungus-
The spores would spill on the
ground and grow miniature
cities.
I'd live towering over them like their
moon.
Starry eyed, reflecting the
forest light-
Cupping the needles of
tiny sky scrapers in my
palms.
I would harvest all those
tiny cities,like
blueberries,
All those crops I
call mine because
I collect them without being a
part of them,
Too big to know the streets,
Too far to feel at home.
