George Kalamaras
My Not-Yet-Young

Having a biotic reaction, I was everything I might live.

I will never forget driving into town, unable to see the highway’s white lines in binding sunset.

No one knows the weakness of a quixotic was.

We smell feathers of migrating geese and appear enrapt with said and done.

When all’s diminished, expect no incident of bored fish.

Sure, everything married everything else, and ordinary leaves did not become a windy routine.

I tried extravagant arrivals and late night winter almanacs.

Everyone agreed I should learn to fly and protect my not-yet-young.

If I wake full of oxygen, will you humiliate my breathing by investigating why?

What if a hovel of thrown stones, containing both the birth and death dates of paramecia, became my repeated need.