We didn’t even know what
it meant to waste time, and even when
the swimming hole was still too cold,
we couldn’t wait to shift
our pliant bodies’ load onto it,
salving the burns of seventh grade scorn,

managing to find a sunny
moment, though gray skies
prompted us to spin gears and circuits
and finally I told you after too many
times to stop electrocuting toads –
you stopped, but also said

I was the only boy you knew
who’d care. The only way we knew
to raise ourselves up was on low tree
limbs, but once I’d climbed, you’d
pelt me with logs, in between
punches, your bony fists
hurting like hell, and one time you even
jabbed a knife into my leg, slicing
a nerve that time has never quite healed.

In the moments we stole from our
little hometown – Scotland, Connecticut –
we dreamt together against
the rage sprouting up from the soil in
springtime and curling around our ankles.