Beat, beat, inside a definitive beat, inside. All that is aching, and then. All that is aching, too sure of oneself.
In order to remember things as they were we have to go back to a time when we didn’t understand what it was like to have things die, when death was no more an eye on wood where we scare ourselves by imagining they are ghosts that will come out of the pattern,
an eye into anything: a dinosaur, a man with a hatchet, what the stars look like in the pitch black. I am holding your hand and we are running through the creek and over the small thatched bridge and up inside the pines’ guts and we are pushing forward until we plop down, we plop down and now we are all stacked together like books side-by-side-by-side-by-side and our hands starfish and webbed and barely touching,
we can see our breath, it is so cold,
we can make shapes through the tops of the pines and we cannot see the houses the line the creek it is cold but not silent, but we are unafraid, we sit and we are unafraid.
No one speaks.
It is not time for speaking. Hands-to-hands-to-hands-to-hands, to feet, sole side to sole side.
Two days later
Two days later we are in your mother’s bedroom and we are taking off our clothes in your parents bed and we are hurrying because we are worried about them coming home even though we know they are not coming home for many hours and we are hurrying and outside the walls she listens to music loud and reads a magazine and waits. You were with her last week, you said she was “very energetic” and she said your dick was
upside down, she’d never seen such a thing.
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