To let go of it all:
Every field where Little Leaguers fly
Around the bases, parents in the bleachers rapt,
And I once announced as a volunteer.

And of the beaches where, in my own clear years,
I merged with the waves, unsupervised for hours,
The sun baking my back and shoulders pink
Until I peeled out of myself in a week.

To let go of the earliest memory—
Elegant lie—that I have woven
Via repetition: the goodbye on the lawn,
His car driving away, into a separate story.

To let go of every image, to divest,
Until, like Adam, naked and vital,
Hair spilling over my shoulders,
I confront a green and unnamed world.

– Jesse Wolfe