I finished counting the weeks gone

and answered as best I could:

We lived in empty stadiums just like

the rest of America. Besides love and

the plasticine sky we had helmets

with cupholders affixed to them

and more than enough neighborhood kids

who’d try anything. A lot of the time we

couldn’t understand what exactly was happening

but at least we could see it all unfolding

in real life from the rooftop. I now believe that

many of us felt a little like pine trees

or John Adams swaggering through

the half-lit republic. Parts of it were

exhausting and seemed like continually

having to look back and forth between

two paintings which are mortal enemies.

Other parts were blades of grass, though,

and firelight, and sometimes our best friends’

eyes would shine like opals. Underneath

everything was a long blue cloud and

vague expectations of whose couches

we could someday sleep on. Which is why I

don’t think it’s irrelevant here to mention

how much it means to me to hoist up

this trophy. It seems like the only thing

in front of me. By that I mean let’s just

see what we feel like in the morning. Let’s

pretend this is where we’re starting off

instead of ending.