once
washed within a name
still wet
like earth
a day before cloudless
rain,
hard, red, undecided
fallow palms
waited for the return
of acceptable quiet:
as in childhood
when days and skin
each ran seamless
and we never
examined the lines
for order,
when the comfort
of mothers
was the only seer
needed,
feeling to where
nerves ended
and sense began,
with hands to push
us higher on swing,
and catch us
at the bottom of slide,
when a run on grass
and dandelion
could spend an hour.
now
we are all yellow,
peasants
in an aristocracy
of normal,
and I wonder-
when older, will we fuck
with the stars
as they did with us?!
Bronze trophy winner
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