I look forward to being dead.
The magic moment that poets—
life’s awkwardly literate jesters—
become instantly cool and wise:
labels we just couldn’t live our way into.
I look forward
to seeing
my life bookended,
parentheses completed:
Lori Kane, (1970-2070)

I look forward
to being words
on a page
and nothing more.
To laughing in the knowledge
that just-words me
never again has to decide
what to wear.
I am words now!
Cover me as you please
to suit your needs.
I’m out within
the field of imagination
running barefoot through grass.
Am the grass
tickling bare feet.

I look forward
to a graceful awkward girl
happening upon me these words,
thinking better of herself
for having found me,
learning to trust her
solitary and collective self,
while standing on nothing more solid
than the loosely gathered stones
in her pockets.

I look forward
to being present when you realize
that you can be words
(or some equivalent love)
an entirely different something
than what you’ve been told
you must be.
How Robert Frost,
Emily Dickinson,
and T.S. Eliot
were for me.

I look forward
to sharing tea
to giggling as you rush
to save pages, screen, or keyboard,
from a spilled liquid
that cannot truly touch me.
I love stains and wrinkled pages!
I look forward
to comparing footnotes with friends,
to hand-scrawled notes around me,
expanding ourselves,
within anthology
our collective infinity
just you,
other poet friends,
and these words me.