I am in this room
full of things that own me.
I have lost everything
that has remained mine.
I have found a dictionary
filled with words for feelings
I’ve never felt.

I want to discard it
and begin speaking in words.
I spoke to a man, once, who lost
a father and I thought of a bed
and all the hopeless sunlight
coming through a hospital window.
I spoke to the birds and saw

in their eyes the many things
I will never see before I depart
this world: A home in hues of blue.
The stratosphere.
The sunrise from behind
a cirrus cloud. Planes.
I want to speak in words

that bear the weight
of our passing through this world.
So before I die I will have memorized
the name of every flower
in every language.
The dead dialects of their beauty.
Then I will rename the human soul

so that one day, when I think of you,
I can climb a cold mountain and breathe
and come down. I can sit in front of a fire
to sing a song with my eyes
closed, trying to keep the heat
in the palm of my hand,
imagining nothing.

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