Knowing and wanting to know Are two different things. I know what I want to know Is innocence. No matter how many times my boot with the hole Goes through the thin shimmer of prismatic ice Over the mud-tan road-puddle, I want it to be the first time. The first broken bone, the first bruise That blossomed fist-shaped on my face Blue-black to purple to yellow Was innocence. That first day, slides were all surprise. Clouds slide by dizzyingly Lying in Billy Costigan's backyard. The smell of grass and slickness in his sister's pants Leaves me serious and elated. Sudden things rush to my ears, And our tongues click through the ice.