We’re in the gravel pits, filled with rainwater, again.
From somewhere, I pull a match & light fire
to the constellations’ dark reflection. Pisces moon.
Our skin wells up with moths. I keep trying to crawl up to the light as the light
crawls out of
the sap-drenched sky. Of course, we’re as beautiful as river rock collapsing,
& no one, other than us,
cold boys with restless shouts, believe
there is something submerged here worth more
than the price
of our bodies, the milk-blue
blade of our skin.
The night stops &
swallowsswallowsswallows
& swallows.
The filaments of our liver
ache with the distant cry of morning.
Our freckled legs tread, rigid, ‘til we become
a thin bone lodged in the quarry’s windpipe.