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They say the full moon makes lunatics of us all and I agree when I look at it, floating through the chlorine. I decide that it controls more than just the tides. My hair latches onto my skull when I kick myself upright and I agree when I look at him as I’m treading water

It’s the little pills behind thick bars, the hurling whites and blues, the sweet veins of consumption; It’s that hard plastic taste, those light strips, bright frost, this mundanity in bloom; It’s her rubberband cry, her satin march, her chorus of keening tongues; It’s walking home, breathing in, gilded heat.

It scares me: asphalt taunting water (too close), a makeshift bridge (last week’s landslide), the wet-dark wood of a pit stop in the trees. And yet: as we’re raked back by gravel tides, as the damp outside slaps us around (a toy car on the mountain’s brim)— Morrissey still finds the time to whine and

The sky is dark when I push— hard—the other boy and his blonde bowl cut streaming down fast like eager ribbons to the ground.   Woodchips meet his scrawny knees, the soft thew in the palms of his hands, his ruddy cheeks.   I watch him, small and pink— my friends, far below, scattering, sticky,

She rests in petals, light—   the knotted red nose,    melting lips, putty:   portrait of grief.   She watches fire wriggle, up—    teasing straw, hair,   skinning old teeth,   skipping free.   She breathes and smiles, sweet—    the bear is dead;   smoke purrs before   newborn sky.