for Toby Underwood
If I lived in a cave and you were my only visitor,
what would I tell you that that the walls had told me?
That people are unfinished and are made between
each other, that worry is neither a Mexican finger trap
or the revolving door of a hospital foyer, that love
is a feeling deferred, which is why it weighs negative
and sucks on you like a cruise ship disappearing?
I would probably warn you to never feel mystical:
nothing is mystical. I would tell you to let yourself
be sad, if being sad is what happens when a person,
awkward in the universe as a plum on a plate,
doffs their day to the inaccessibility of other days,
and loosens their tie on the sofa to let some life out.