MANIFESTO

here's what I think you need to know about this place

Here’s what I think you need to know about this place. Here is everything I’ve tried to learn so far:

everything is a love letter, and all of it is for you.

the sky reflected in those windows; the grimy streaks the cleaners left behind,

the hiss of dying grasses bent to breeze,

indistinct chatter from six strangers on the train;

all of this was written to tell you how much love there is,

hand-cramping, scrabbled-across-the-nicest-paper-we-could-find love;

rushed-to-the-postman-and-waiting-on-your-breakfast-table love.

everything is the song of the summer, a heady, beat-heavy hit,

and it’s not shy at all about dropping your name,

and everybody rolls down windows to sing along.

they blast the song in souvenir shops

where every key chain is saw-it-and-thought-of-you sweet

and your pockets have grown so heavy from the gifting.

the straining seams are there to show you how much love there is,

thrilling, thought-I’d-never-feel-this-way-again love;

gentle, morning-softened-sore-muscled-arms love.

everything is a feast, and it’s going to get cold.

lean down; press your teeth into it all, like a kid at a pie-eating contest.

the spot on the sidewalk where you always trip,

the christmas lights hanging on the street meat stand,

the way the too-hot tea scorches your eager tongue;

eat it all up, become the kind of full that makes you grow.

all of this was made to tell you how much love there is,

and how many heaping helpings you can take,

and how everything comes hot-out-of-the-oven wanting to love you.

everything is a love letter, and the envelope isn’t even sealed.

the way your date keeps looking at your mouth,

the deer watching you from the soft shoulder of the road,

the shape of your breath in winter air;

and the world has spent so much time writing it all down for you,

won’t you at least open it up—

won’t you at least read it?

if everything can love you,

then you can love everything too

and still have room for seconds.