March kite.

If you were a kid, you got a kite
Every March,

And flew it along the Conodoguinet
In someone's back yard who didn't mind.

The wind took the line, yanking it away from you
Like a willful dog on a leash, til
All that was left
was the pink strand scar on your palm,

And a ripped blue diamond flashing in the sun.

If I dropped it and you did, you would watch a blowing
Handkerchief fall into the ocean and grab it for me.

It could wind up in the Adriatic someday, or between the dead teeth of
A pirate.  But it doesn't matter.

Once you touched it you would hold your hand between the waves forever.
So many lines on your hand it would take.

"Stand By Me", in Rite Aid.

Thunder sets a brief, white precedent,
Saying aloud what

Without his wet shoulder exposed

Would qualify better

As songwriting.

Sleep.

It's topsy-turvy--

The oceans can be divided into two piles.

Soon, and
Okay.

I've kissed windows on buses because I was
Close enough to home
That they might as well not be there

And if someone stole them

We would go swimming.