A comfortable place to find waking
The cavernous expectations you indeed
Thought exclusive perhaps or shameful
You’re twelve; you’re a child,
An infant, even, howling for a single key
And you’d try at every door you see
To be let in and discover what you knew you knew,
What you’d found at four or six and harvested somewhere temporary,
What mutated, unconsciously, creeping into everyday luck
A recollection of patterns grown stale or ripe
The omnipresent buzzing of impressions unidentified
And now, finding their isotopes on the wider map
Carefully engaging their newfound capacities
And trusting that all maps might widen similarly