If I dare
cross the threshold
into that corridor
where beauty and expire
dance the dance
of burning pigments
into a different
sky blue.

If I say I remember
when empathy swooned
naked eye to naked eye,
beer bottles rolled
across a concrete floor
to a noisy stop, and no one
moved age appropriately
to 1980s jangle pop.

If the new season
didn’t contain the trapped history
of a slow suicide
I couldn’t prevent,
and the word waste
didn’t fall inevitably
off branches
of another helpless ash.

If that New Haven house fire
hadn’t forced me
to grow up, die
a little, and learn
a lot about how to take
reckless behavior
to a new level
all in one intoxicated breath.

If I take a clean
and sober one now
and tell all the trees
and perfect chill in the air
I belong here
in this season,
then the unconditional
homecoming can begin.