to Kyle

I'll tell you
about my childhood
snow of crushed bones in the garden
and fluttering canaries
my collection of globes
with miniature cities
how I watched their inhabitants
living literature lives

once I mourned
a turtle escaping
no books were written
on this
or where the burial grounds
for loss were located
and how to dig a grave
for something without a body

so often I felt like a ditch
for tricycles and bikes
expensive sport cars
crashed elsewhere
but I didn't know the spot
no books told me
no books were written
on this

worst of all I couldn't die
my suburban life
was too precious
grown into lilac bushes
and concrete blocks
however much I trimmed it
the beast would raise its head
but I didn't know why
no books were written on me
or on this

no books spoke
of the day that we met
on that day
our book has begun ---