My Tongue remembers
the taste of Blue glass
sipped in spring shadows.
In that Neighborhood,
the fourth move of seven,
we made swords out of sticks.
My friends and I got lost in the greenbelt
looking for newts
and maybe dragons.
Our parents worried red
when we return –after dusk
to shadowed cul-de-sacs.
In our fort near the creek,
we talked about girls,
and what we knew of being men.
In summer by meager flames,
I would tell spine-tingling ghost stories
that we were young enough to believe.
Tectonics shifted when I moved.
At ten, miles feel like light-years,too far.
Now, I wonder what kind of men they are.
I look away from the spirit bottle
turned lapis lazuli by dust and time,
murmuring memories into my dark attic.
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