Aug 112011
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.

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