I know there are some who think
that all my light is gone and I
will never burn again.
One of the peaceful now,
who live and do the living things
and die, so far from that muffled rage
that once made me swing a sledge hammer
into the broad and tender trunk of that backyard elm,
where my father hung the swing
and Aimee fell and cut her knee.

And I too have wondered if I am
the match that goes out uselessly.
But oh — this night, oh —
this glorious expansion…
remembering…

I, strong-armed in the rafters
and across the rooftops of buildings.

I, asshole, kissing with a bloody nose or
split-lip or vomit-mouthed,
in the middle of the game,
in bookstores and in weddings,
embarrassing everyone.

I, darer,
asking Rose if I could
touch her cluelessly,
fool in the magnolia branches,
drunk in boxing gloves,
bleeding just a little more
beneath the knife
or soaking in the flashing blues.

I, criminal.

Or standing in the hurricane.
I, lightning-rod. Shoe-burner.
God-chaser. Page-tearer.

Yeah. This is the new song.
This is the sound it makes
when you hit it with your fist.
This is the current I ride on, my groundswell
I told you once that you would
find me one day, released from all my
failing and free to seek
my own perfection
beneath this moon
that has always loved me.

I meant it.