I have old paper journals.
I thought looking at them again
would be embarrassing.
like remembering when I slipped
in front of my fifth grade class.
or was a Methodist.
or waved around crystals and
pretended to be New Age.
or wanted the Girl Scouts to like me.

(And it is OK if you wave around crystals.
It is just that religion does not become me.)

And there are things I will not tell you.
I feel sure you don't want to know.
And if you do, I will tell you it would
feel like fumbling for words when
someone hands you a Bad Poem and asks
what You Think.

(There. Have I squished it?)

And it is embarrassing sometimes.
Mostly when I would like to think
I was young then and didn't know
any better. But that's not always true.
And maybe that is just the place for
inferior poetry rendered in a loopy,
undisciplined hand. Or for naive meditations
on love unrequited and fates undecided
scrawled in a shaky script
over a glass of cheap Merlot.

(Sometimes it was coffee.)

And I read your journals and see that
you have different eyes. And sometimes
you help me see a little more. But I
have to remind myself. Don't ever walk
past that tree without thinking it's
beautiful. Because then you will not
be seeing enough. And some of you talk
about walls and maybe I do want to peek
over a little bit more. So maybe I will
take away a brick or two but I don't
always know why I want to.

(I could say 'Elves' to you, but it's
not elves exactly. Yes, I will borrow
a little bit. It is nice to speak
with someone else's voice.)

Maybe I will call them elves anyway.
Because I'm too tired for precision.
And maybe I'll tell you that sometimes
I want to know where the fuck they're
going with my bricks. Even when I'm alone.
But maybe I will tell you about them
someday if they get the better of me.
And maybe it will not be so bad.