But when you’re young and dream of
escaping narrow Westchester
for exotic New England. But
before summer was over we
were. I returned carrying some
cigarettes, Sometimes I Wish I
Was a Pretty Girl, your hand-drawn
map to the clitoris, and when
I think of your face that one day
hair bright honey light your smile our
world holding your hand through the years
hoping something might fit like that
only better. But the dusty
manuscripts, the unicycle,
other animals 