Perhaps I’m still in love with her,
a dilettante, an amateur,
but still I’m slow to shred the things
I wrote before I spread my wings.
It’s not as if my bookshelf groans
because of them; the five trombones
I never play are surely more
indicative of needless store.
I keep the poems of my youth
as evidence – and here’s the truth –
of how I saw the world through eyes
that understood no compromise,
no consequence, no checks or chains.
And here, at least, that world remains.