Spring shed its skin like the hollow cottonmouth,
as our reticulated summer slithered down the flood stage river,
while in the blistering elsewhere, Euclid outlined our friends’ lanky repose with flaxen chalk.
In the forenoon’s frantic spell, we rushed through our unyielding wood,
with the solstitial donning of narrow sunburnt shins, fresh scrapes,
old scabs, and a few scars; the thorns avenged the ferns.
The vines were to be trusted,
as we collided into each others’ shared innocence like young stars, our frames:
the sun’s wanton studies; the light’s lengthy lectures.
We binged on black berries
in fits of messy laughter,
the whites of our eyes reflecting the glow of an incomprehensible heaven.
Half-naked sprinting to our secret creek; our untold oasis,
where I noticed your gamboling form change foot by henna following foot.
The warm breath of striving July mimicked our wolven own,
as I watched you, my first Venusian body
go out into the summer’s altering air, limb-clutched to the seasonal-frayed tire swing,
and there you hung for a moment:
a deep pink colored ornament, dusted with copper freckles.
I fell in love, as you fell to water.