1952

There in the road lay my lost friendship ring.




almost died twice on the table with
only the face of the clock laughing
in those silver black photos of youth





Bud landed a good-sized speckled trout.





momma I can't see no light no please
come back I'm drenched with sweat
in the afterglow of a burnt ghost





There will be no floats in the parade.





I am screaming but you don't hear me
what makes you think we are not dead
already inside these musty yearbooks





Here is your red crayon.




"tomorrow or next year or several
years from now your turn will come"