I will move to New Amsterdam, where the rivers pour quite gracefully into a glass.
As if I were a colonial man and this was the 17th century…
I am moving to New Amsterdam.
When I get to New Amsterdam,
I will sit, as a mouse,
Quietly in a corner.
Until I am taken by the courage to run out in front of men that may crush me with the heel of their rustic boots.
When I get to New Amsterdam,
That’s what I’ll do.
When I get to New Amsterdam.
I’ll send my friends a letter.
On it written,

“Cheers! I wish you were here, and life could not be better!”

With a picture of me smiling,
Glassy eyed and my vision, turbid.
Wearing a sweater that belongs to a man more petite than myself,
and he wearing mine.
When I arrive in New Amsterdam:
I’ll try not to stumble.
I will not lose my composer,
Slur my words or act the opposite of what is socially normal.
When I move to New Amsterdam,
I’ll be so happy!
Scents of peach, berry, and whatever flavor is blue will have me.
When I get to New Amsterdam.
I’ll look through my walls and stare at the terrain.
Enthralled, By the tree shapes and the cloud colors that change.
When I have gotten to New Amsterdam…
When I am finished with it,
I’ll just fall,
Black,
Into my own mind.
Dreaming,
I have left just enough to wake up, hearing the river, and travel there a second time.

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