I've been wanting to ask if you’re real yet
My poem-patched knees patiently prayed but roots never grew
Now I'm ankle deep in melted metal asking fading fire to give me gold
The bells all broke by sundown, but I hear fiddles strike the silent night
I bought a little blue book in Brooklyn
I'll take you there someday when we're finished with forests
My palms will plant cursive paper prisms in the soil
Their sweet solemn seeds will say an amen again
Hand me that pen, would you?