eyes closed
against the Presbyterian wind
in Oak Hill
standing in the way of a horse
I witness a swing set self-flagellation
a swift kick to the moldy basketball
and
the trees explode in temporal flair
oranges and reds and browns
that Kia Sportage (over there)
is an opiate buoy
in a sea of coloration
the white bovine tongues
wagging against the fence
brain fruit on the ground
I hold your hoodied hand
Umbros swish
against my growing
a cedar fire is nice
for this boy
now
on
to
your
Memphis Group sofa
in the sunroom
your hook-up line gaze
is deeper than Welch's Concord Grape
motion to me in some way
I can understand
I wear one backpack strap for you
I pretend I have no parents for you
That is not my mother summoning me
in a silver Previa
I am feral
I am the Mad Max of these undeveloped woods
I am handy with a hard edge ruler,
with a mechanical pencil syringe,
and with excuses
