Tomorrow a new day will come and I will
not be ready.
Ready for what, I don’t know.
Ready for who, I cannot say. I used to write
mysteries on the backs of used napkins
and then I spread them into the wind like
leaves in summer.
Tomorrow the world will be ready for me,
and I will sing to the moon and kiss the stars
my hands open and embracing the world
I have come to know as myself.
The date is marked on my calendar. The night
is of shooting stars.
I avoid broken windows and messed-up
bicycles.
Sometimes, I wish to reach
out my arms.
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