"I’m sorry about the trap doors
and the sky I taped to the ceiling of that cabin.
Sorry about always promising false infinites
and always forgetting that the sun can’t be trained
not to rise so early.
When you search for a curse word,
and all you find is my name,
I won’t even be angry.
The fury doesn’t belong to me,
at least not now.
When your mother tells you about the ocean that
tried to drown itself in a shipwreck,
you will show her this poem.
You won’t know how to use your hands
for a while after that,
but she won’t say ‘I told you so.’
There has to be a place in the sky
that doesn’t know what storms taste like yet.
I wonder if it is hard to be blamed for the thunder
in other clouds.
I know that’s not what this was.
There’s no mistaking the rain here.
It was real, and it happened,
and it has made fallen branches of the best of us.
But there has to be an island that
doesn’t know disappearing yet.
I promise that’s where you are,
a poem waiting to be read
somewhere safe underneath the sand,
far away from hurricanes that have names that
sound anything like mine."
"I shall die here. Every last inch of me shall perish. Except one. An inch. It’s small and it’s fragile and it’s the only thing in the world worth having. we must never lose it, or sell it, or give it away. We must never let them take it from us."