Presbyterian Wind

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