The truth is

I do not love this world, what we’ve 

done with it, like artists who didn’t know 

when to stop, I do not love this world, 

I loved it once, when I was young and 

made of eyes, and everything was new, 

when I would go down to the creek and 

sit, watching the water gliders writing 

just for me. I do not love this world. But 

I could love it again, if you took my hand

and showed me how, led me out past

the city’s teeth, if you let me sit for 

hours until I forgot if I was the hill 

or the person on it, if I was myself 

or the whole unending sky.