Did I say this somewhere before, that God

in his distant and outdated scrapbook,

frozen nights upon Christmas cold,

I pointed my telescope up into the frozen air,

walking towards the brightest star in the universe,

for a second, maybe longer, I was the complete of

all my dreams to be,

the perfect explorer,

a brave and dashing warrior,

the perfect chaplain for the moment

please, dear owner of said scrapbook, I did not want

to grow up, to be frozen in time like the breath

I exhaled, Christmas night forever,

grandmother's back kitchen was the warmest spot

of the house,

with her large mahogany breakfast table,

a cat's breath of camphor cakes,

next to a large and sad bedroom

called America.