It’s not written on paper. 
It could never become flat,
a two dimensional apparition,
a ghost floating past us
like history lessons ignored,
like so many smiles forgotten
by our roadside of dreams and nightmares,
of sweetness and sickly longevity,

wild like riding across an American plane
bareback on a palomino’s shoulders.
I swear it was a different set of lungs
that sucked in air and pushed out sound
when I spoke it, a word that sounded
familiar and yet had no meaning
until it breached my lips.

Oh God,
          I cried,
                    Oh God,

this gift and there is no where to store it.

And the most beautiful word in the world
vibrates in my throat
and in the air around you and I,
and then, like all beautiful things,
it is gone.