When I was younger, I shackled myself
with my own need,
and buried the chains in leaves of paper,
mountains of ink.
I drew my soul in chalk on sidewalks
and in notebooks
and whittled away the kind of character I'd play,
The kind of person I'd be.
I hoped someday I'd come to fill
that unweathered outline, that I'd fit,
rather than redefine, the definition
I'd made of me.

And now, I find my shadow too thin,
and mouth too tired from the recitation
to say again those same uninspired words,
in whatever permutation.

Shall I go now,
Trailing a world by that chain,
and try to reform the feelings
faithfully made, tended carefully
in my youth?

All that is left is to take it up
Those same forms, to reimagine those tired figures
In a new grammar,
And to taste promise with a short tongue,
With mouth closed, lips pressed
Together, abstinent, still,
In the shape of a heart.