dwelling deep in those dog days-
            in that pastured pond cloistered 

by weeping willows and wild 
            blackberry bushes, we kept 

ourselves neat in our boxer briefs.
            sunburnt and sensitive to the shine 

shimmering off our naked spines,
            we danced with the pollen

and every crystalline spec
            melting in the sunlit streams, 

piously casted down from beyond the 
            tops of willow trees.

swatting swales of ‘squitoes, 
            suckling on our soft skin, we

branched out on a boulderstone, 
            flaring limbs over one another’s, 

as friends do, i suppose.
            is that really all we were?

your stubbled cheek laxed into my thigh, 
            your amber eyes rose to meet mine–

their curious molten gold 
            glinting in the light.

i knew you by the amount of
            ticks i pulled from your head

as gentle as if extracting 
            a daydream-a righteous rend.

when, in the midst 
            of my brushing through 

your dimly damp locks, threading
            my fingertips around each bend; 

part caressing, part eradicating
            those waltzing little bugs,

how different, really,
            were my hands to your head;

from tiny arachnid legs?
            my fallen gaze from barbed

feeding tubes, sucking that
            beautiful soul from you?

and as i pulled away, you laughed,
            you don’t have to stop 

if you don’t want to.
            in mercy, they found a way

down the length of your cheek,
            considered pulling back,

more than once,
            before dragging toward

your pliant lips, drawing nearer
            and nearer when you 

prised yourself away.
            and as the sun’s rays strained

behind a sudden stifle of gray, 
            you gave yourself back to the 

turbid, marshy spring, 
            leaving me coy upon realizing that i

would never know what would come of us.
            my eyes welled into a blur,

and i caught my heavy head 
            between shaky knees-

the midwest’s very own Kjerag Bolt.
            i sat still in the denseness

of the muggy august mist,
            taking you in as

a boy-simply unsure of
            how a boy could exist.