The Past is an Egg the Width of a Thimble
In a past life I worried if hummingbirds slept.
I kept whatever I couldn’t control close,

spelled out like knuckle tattoos. 
My favorite question from grade school:

What advice would you give your younger self?
To go back, I’d pencil in bubble letters: 

STUDY YOUR ANXIETY LIKE A HOLSTEIN
WITH A PORTHOLE IN ITS CHEST.

I’d stop searching the xeriscape of my mind
looking for the perfect stone to shatter

my bedroom window. At dusk my town
glows like a birdbath after a downpour.

Every stranger I meet I offer milkweed,
explaining This is the only plant a monarch will lay its eggs on.

In the morning I walk to work. Before me
a sidewalk of gingkos. Their petals the color

of the underside of a lizard I kept as a boy.
I envy their quick abandon—perfunctory

& numerous as freshly cut hair.
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