You talk of trouble, but I was born
to the blaze, the kind of trouble
women wake for, hungry
in the clear morning. I take
my time until I don’t: now and now.
I am the beacon of the body,
signaling. I stride the boulevards,
flash on and off all night, all day.
When I lose my strength, concede,
though I’ll range the city no more,
tucked in the aging body, I’ll glorify
the touches and tongues that have
known me. This is what I’ll miss:
that I was the chronicler of bliss.
