June 21, 2009

Sometimes I find myself
still in the grips of your
schoolyard poetry;
your voice, grit in my memory.
The feel of your hands,
cool and dry and boney hard,
has stayed on the palms of my

In my head
I've confused you
with the other ones too often
and I'm sorry for that.
You were a different story
altogether, all the time.

Then, there were a thousand
summers in every summer.
There were a thousand words
in your mouth for me.
But how often those words
were about me I cannot say.

On July nights we would
drive from my house to yours;
from your house to mine-
all the fireflies like stars in the wheat.

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