Travel.

I have a hundred little bruises claiming patches of the land of my legs
The result of self-uprooting -- every several nights a new town,, a new bed,
a hundred new doorways and furniture edges
unmemorized into coordinated movements in the dark
or in the drink
and so I bruise, a new curse in a new place issues from my lips

I collect a hundred scraps of paper, the only solid proof and memory
of every place I've seen
Receipts of restaurants, museum tickets, even clever beer mats
in a foreign tongue
I stuff these each into my wallet, backs of notebooks, pockets, handbag,
until my life becomes a puppet stuffed with paper
sometimes giving paper cuts to new acquaintances
but I can't be blamed for my travel-weary clumsiness

Taking to a new place, I learn to call it home
so that in leaving, I feel torn anew
I traveled Prague alone, the lack of friends resulting in a quiet bond
with every stone beneath my feet and under my palm as I touched buildings,
tracing fingers over gothic details and nouveau swirls, learning by heart
the nuances my heart needed

There are a hundred things I perhaps should have said
A hundred more I should have caught between my teeth before they left my lips
A few kisses, a few mistakes -- sometimes one and the same
I have been one of two ships passing
I have been a regret
I have been a blessing, a double-edged sword, a pleasure
Once, to my knowledge, the one that got away
I wore many hats, I wore out many shoes -- blisters turn to old scars,
a rueful memory due to fade after my bruises

I have lived a hundred years in a span of four months and nine days
loved a hundred people, lost a hundred doubts and preconceptions
learned so much more than I was told I would learn
My heart, my stamina for feeling has grown a hundred-fold

I could not tell you, would I do it the same way again,
just that there is no such thing as regret or accident,
going back and starting over
there is no good, no bad weather
just the weather, just a life to lead
free to be made of what you wish.