the Synclavier symphony,
the petrichor lead,
and the firework explosions,
and the invisible memories.
the actual string section,
the African American applause,
the deaf leading the mute,
newness and air.
the New York Times,
the things that are easy to imagine
and, yet, hard to hold,
and the thirst...
she said this is the year,
and I agreed,
but those aren't your thumbs,
I said to thee.
all of the fall of the all
makes independence taste like saxophones
brawling like exercising bishops
in forever basement.
so wait a minute and see
what it takes to see,
for even the eastern sea knows
what it is like to dream (long).