If my slate is wiped clean
like I am thirteen—
where do I go from here
with only childhood shames
as idly passing blame,
you make my desires (only) all too clear
I don't stand for anything
except to the sea and to be falling—
immersion-soaked, sustained
a fish of perfume, cloth, and flesh seas
crawls dizzy-set and free—
evolving to walk the land— again
Started while residing on Westmoreland St. in Syracuse, NY; 1993 or 1994, aged 25 or 26.
Writings By Erick Heins 