I have hidden
my big dripping heart
in a secret place. It hangs
from a rack
out of reach.

I believe no one—
not even you—
knows where. I am
so wrong. You’ve passed
by the site

so many times
over decades and degrees.

Never thought to look
till now. It was so easy
for you to find.

Affixed to that thing

all this time.
To what? Where? There.
A number. A symbol.
A geography without coordinates,
my love.

I think I am touched
by patterns in the dirt.
I believe I am a dirt eater.
I am New England dirt.

I think I am touched
by the way you think.
I believe I can touch you
with the soft side
of a thought.
I am only touching
your skin in a dream
I had four years ago.

I think I am the alphabet
recited backwards
underwater. I believe
I am underwater
hoping to stop fearing my words
will rust. I am a rusted inner hull
of a houseboat tethered to a dock
in the 79th Street Boat Basin.

I believe I am a map
of New York City
drawn with lipstick.
I think I am being memorized
in my sleep. I am all the dreams
I can’t remember when I wake.

I believe I am a sad cedar
in a ghost forest waiting
for someone to make me laugh.
I think I am saltwater
that has kissed too many Midwestern rivers.
I am a freshly dug canal on an island
that turns out to be the kneecap
of a giant soaking in his tub.

I think I am still moving too fast
down a gravel road
in a speeding car. I believe I am
one little scar
beneath my left eyebrow,
another faded on my right cheek.
I am a station wagon way-back
harboring two restless spies.

I think I am a memory
of two guys named Matt mooning us
from a Rabbit as it raced down a boulevard
of beer and 20-year-old bravado.
I believe I am a rabbit
in an otter’s body.
I am really just a fish
with arms and breasts.

I think I am unlicensed.
I believe I am unlicensed.
I am unlicensed
to do anything but this.

I think I believe I am
you. We
are all
a little bit touched.