Lake Street, Brighton

 
 Between seven years
 of unsent letters,
 inconsequential indignation,
 childish arrogance
 
 I'm looking for that one poem I wrote
 in 2007, maybe 2008
 about that one night in May when the air
 was so soft, clean, and the scent
 of lilacs blanketed the suburbs.

 When I rode my bike down Lake Street
 and (filled with the notions of coming home
 and being at home)
 dared to take my hands off the handles,
 to lift my arms
 like wings.