We’re stubborn and we love to dance.

We go to the empty warehouse in our head, slide off our shoes, and turn on the radio.

We love an iris just before it opens, its sharp gesture in the cold air.

A small goat often wanders into our dreams, bemused, chewing on a red wool cap.

The sun’s birds land easily in our outstretched hands.

We have bones dark enough to hold up time.

No one would believe how often we smile, still.

We are nothing but open windows.

No—we are nothing but windows, opening.

We want to crack our teeth against the sky.

We wind skeins of airplane exhaust between our palms.

We collect our little jars.

Softly, softly go the doubts across our faces.

We have been singing our whole lives, maître. When are you coming back?