After Michael Lavers
You wake up and hear humans. You wake up
and think you haven’t seen enough humans, haven’t
sung or written enough poems about humans.
Of being crumbled or cuddled by humans.
You wake up. Your eyes are open.
Orange plastic seats. Shuddering lights through
subway windows, insistent like operatic vocal cords.
Playgrounds exist. And dance halls. And stadiums.
The Great Wall of China and the Eiffel Tower.
Bountiful Park. The Whole Earth. Your Kitchen.
In your dream you were in a quiet room
full of blanketed softness, but then you woke up
remembering there are hugs. There are
Quinceaneras, Sweet Sixteens, sweat-filled air
at your cousin’s wedding. And even love
in what it feels like to hate. Wanting to destroy
instead of choosing who you’ve bound yourself to.
Like the longest hug after you’ve cried.
You wake up, wanting to see, to touch.
You see. You touch. Here in the tumbling swiftness
of the tunnel of loneliness and languish.
There are humans. There are these people.
Strangers and friends on your bench. Hold to them
with chatter and anguish. Hold them however you can.
