Inspired by Kid Koala’s The Storyville Mosquito

the honeysuckle blooms at the end
of Stratton the same way it blooms
at the edge of the Mill Dam, curls
its fingers around the fence like
a musician caressing a clarinet. I have
nothing to my name except my name
around here, no one who reminds me
of the things I’ve done or said. What
does it mean to awaken to a blank slate
daily? Someone once told me that every
act of leaving requires arrival so I keep
casting myself to the bottom of each lake,
re-learning how to kiss the earth, how
to say thank you to a town I did
not know I would know but now I do.

I pull the dew from the flowers.
It always tastes the same