AT THE CINDERBLOCK LIGHTHOUSE


1.

Who will sound again
The bell first rung
When recess was just
A microsaga-- a swingset
To be leapt from,
Into adulthood's scolding
embrace?

As it slept in a bunkbed,
Dripping urine,
Floating dismembered,
Imagination:

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 &
ampersands.

Now I'm trancing

Over the tidal flats. Now I stab my childhood

In the back. Passion heaves. In the muck dead

Things agree.


2.

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
Anchor.