Monday, March 2, 2009

Reap.

Hot summer days, long ago
when a gang of us
would run laughing out the back
of the farm house, and through the cars
well met like cattle on the gravel drive
a drift of reproach on the air behind us
shot dead by the banging of the screen door.
I was always last, fumbling for air
and even then the fearful voice that wished control
of itself and to warn the others not to, as if it could
or would, dug inside me
the beginnings of a thirty year exploration
cut, bleed, examine, close up
but
forget that future now
just run, little boy, run
jump the mines the soldier's left behind
and I'll hold you as you hold me and he holds the fence
and someone gets it, the shocking joke
haha, your turn, no way, you wuss
let's keep on running, let's follow the golden trail
let's ride this smell, this heat, this realness
upward until far above
we survey our own fast and fragile memories
and laugh at how tiny the day seems
when we look at it
before night.

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