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.