Most days I

want to run away to

memories I’ve

never actually

had.

Street-saunter

down the double-yellow

lines on Main at one-a.m.

in July when

Kutztown is a breathing

husk.

Follow the road to the hill

with the graveyard

where no one I know

is buried.

Half the tomb stones are

caressed faceless.

Lay on my back

alone and pretend

I’m kissing a boy

I’ve not yet met– eat

peach rings like manna.

Camp beneath the moon

shadows of anonymous obelisks–

stuck in the soil like pen caps.

I reach up to spoon

the moon from between

warm wisps of brothy clouds

like a won-ton–

Peel it open as I would

a bag of 99 cent gas station

gummy worms. I’ll

save the last pieces for you

and leave the rest in a bouquet

by the grave made for everyone

and no one.