We ate the sun. Sprinkled it with jasmine and red, Alabama dirt. Moss of my father's oak tree.
We drank desert stars and full moons. Our thirst wouldn't quench, so we drank all night, our toes buried in cool sand.
We crowned our dark heads with golden wheat: Illinois, Missouri, Nebraska woven tight. Midwestern sprites in summer shorts and tan-lined sandals.
We wrote poems, lying in freshly cut grass. Mine, by a finger tracing your back. You preferred pen and a bare arm.
We broke noses, fingers, and baby toes. Twisted anything that could twist. Tore ligaments galore. Threw backs out before we could even drive. We were wild, dirty and reckless for living.
We drank desert stars and full moons. Our thirst wouldn't quench, so we drank all night, our toes buried in cool sand.
We crowned our dark heads with golden wheat: Illinois, Missouri, Nebraska woven tight. Midwestern sprites in summer shorts and tan-lined sandals.
We wrote poems, lying in freshly cut grass. Mine, by a finger tracing your back. You preferred pen and a bare arm.
We broke noses, fingers, and baby toes. Twisted anything that could twist. Tore ligaments galore. Threw backs out before we could even drive. We were wild, dirty and reckless for living.
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