To Will who sat next to me on the train & read me a poem

i want to be your pockets
& what you keep in them. 

i want to be the subway 
that's taking you back some door
made of zippers & buttons,

i would empty myself
of all other passengers &
tell you that you are safe now
& that no one can make
you older.

you will stay on this
train forever & 
read aloud a poem 
that's printed out 
& folded four times
into a square.

i want to be where you 
crease that page, 
my knees & elbows
folded & re-folded,
you will never have to fold
that is my job.

Will, can you tell me
why the lights underground
are always orange?

Can you tell me what the
last book you read was
& what you did with
the flyleaf pages?

you make me want to 
give up my life as a poet
& live in subway carts
to find you again, to ask
you what your parents names are
& what the first poem
you wrote was.

i fall down the cement steps
on Christopher street
like a dead bird & 
i jump down on the tracks,

not for the train to 
hit me but for the train
to eat me.

all that metal, 
we were in all that metal
moving fast towards
some doors.

i think the first poem
i wrote when i was probably
eight was about butterflies
& color blue.

our train cart fills with
them, with butterflies
all made of words.

they land on our faces
& we can no longer
tell who is younger or
older or coming or going.

if i read my poem to you on
the train would you have
listened to me?

i think you would have,
& you'd tell me to keep writing
& to never be older 
& to be safe 
& to feel the lining
of your pockets 
& to fold the poem 
another time