since I was born late in the cycle.
I suppose then they called us late bloomers.
Now they call us sensitive types.
Yes, I unfolded an untimely lotus,
blooming in whatever was left of the year.
I stand now at the top of the stair,
the last to descend from the attic.
I am merely one step away
from stepping free from these roots.
Maybe after then, I can write
a poem that contains no "i"–
but tomorrow, i will burn.
an' tomorrow, we will burn.
Rivaling even the arid sun
in the ancient memory sky,
for the year has just tomorrow begun:
an' it will blaze all the gardens of indifference.
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