PAST THE SELF


    Not all good passes


    with age and ticking hands.


    In the beginning I


    was in awe of everything.


    Eager to reach for


    cords and carpet fuzz.


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    Everything that passed


    through my hands


    a treasure.


    In the middle


    I was littered with the


    flash and blind of others,


    the roses flashing thorns—


    I wanted the satin,


    Even if I bled.


    Only now do I begin


    to see the other


    flowers in the garden


    are just as weak as me.