Sunday, July 03, 2011


The two of us: just a pair of ids,
clambering around in bodies too new

to really do any damage. His personality
seemed organized around the deep desire

to hold a gun. Mine too. We climbed trees.
Later, he joined the infantry,

and I became a writer,
because these were

the only ways either of us knew
how to feel powerful. He became cold.

I did too. Not on purpose.
We etiolated. Then one night

he loosed the full capacity
of his crazy on me. We fought.

I remember it now and then.
It had a certain poetry to it.

His fists, my words. We'd grown
into men destined to destroy each other.

Just a pair of ids, clambering around
in the insanity of growing up.

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