A German called out more light when he was croaking. I coughed so hard last night. I was only joking
and the German
had a good idea about plants.
But there were boys when I was a boy.
We took a magnifying glass
and roasted ants. They’d sizzle up.
We were all teeth somehow, boys,
and spit brown juice into cups.
And we all wanted to kill each other.
And in the sun we meant it. Strange.
To want to end a dirty, frayed life
for killing ants. We’d cry out
under clotheslines, worrying mothers
to a tread. We were boys, and
their violence, my own violence, my hands,
our greasy hands, light, more light,
in the fireflies burn and press we buried our dead.