I would like to purchase a few items.
I would like to buy a big sweater with roomy sleeves, like the one my dad has.
I would like to buy a makeup kit, so that I may look more like my truest self.
I would like to buy a house in New Orleans, so I can have somewhere warm to stay when the winter is cold, where the music cements the bricks.
I would like to buy a dog—new or used—to keep as a pet, to live in my house, to never be lonely.
I would like to buy the inside of a guitar, where it is warm and smells like pine, where I can lose little things, like wedding rings and tiny screws.
I would like to buy information. Books, lessons, rumours, sights. I will buy those in bulk.
I would like to buy a bit of swampland where New York is, with a creek coming in from the shore. I want it to have sharp oysters; I want to find myself in the reeds and marvel at the height of the tide.
I would like to buy a forest in Kentucky. I want the tree tips splayed like fireworks; the stones pulsing with hidden water.
I would like to buy the gay bar, the one with the open mic I used to sing slow, sad songs at, where there is now a CVS. I hear it is on sale.
I would like to buy the snowfall; I will purchase it in the bundle with the west wind that brings it.
I would like to buy my creaturehood back—I long to become a force of nature again.
I would like to buy a year of my life.
I have enough for all these things; name your price. More than anything,
I would like to purchase a square of the sky. I want to see Sirius on the horizon,
in the mornings, and know that tract of pink
and blue—that azure star with its knowing light,
haloed in ice crystals, seen by all—
is mine.