AT THE CINDERBLOCK LIGHTHOUSE
Who will sound again
The bell first rung
When recess was just
A microsaga-- a swingset
To be leapt from,
Into adulthood's scolding
As it slept in a bunkbed,
Ours got fucked.
The mathematics prize vaulted away.
Nothing of you but a sticky snapshot
Creased across the
grain. Folded & quartered
Into my zipped pocket.
Now in the stewing black
Of a land laden with cobblestones &
Now I'm trancing
Over the tidal flats. Now I stab my childhood
In the back. Passion heaves. In the muck dead
He came in from the sun--
Ryan Smilac, eleven and thunderstruck.
I was there all along, hiding
Like the photo folded in his pocket.
He came in from the gale to sit
In the sand, on the floor
Of my toolshed, crosslegged.
To let the whipping pines outside
Screen his grief from fierce Apollo.
I found him like a coin muted
In an inner pocket. His song
Glistening in secret. We shall become
An alchemy. As we sit, crosslegged,
With pillars of flame in all
Four upturned palms. Lifelines
Pulsing through the cool acoustics.
It is in this hush we found our