Today is my thirty-ninth birthday;

How does it all get to this? As of 8:15am this morning (not that I saw it, with my annual Carleton Tavern birthday party last night). Should I even bother talking about what I hope for the upcoming year? I hope for what I am currently doing to continue. I hope for what is sometimes and even often difficult to become easier. I am already in a good place; what else could I ask for? Ugh, and next year 40; do I want to think about that at all?

poem at thirty-nine

another (brief) history of l.

each day falls
in relative current

what is
or what isn’t

observations of weather
& time, & what shifts,

for instance,

inside the tulip,
letter drop

we make love,
a polished cold

or diamond,
on a band of gold

a series of letters
& long-distance calls

your postcards from florida,
lake louise

a sequence of flutter
& small sounds

, goodnight breath

what we trust to, this
& then this

& cherish, thus

how simply words,
the base

of the envelope