DOCKS
There are things
I never told you
about the summers,
enough to fill
the thickest left-
handed bible.
The boys with
their flat and rosy
knuckles living
the dream of fighters
tangle, twist, ache.
What we did with little
reason: betray
the weaknesses
of disused lovers,
roll through parties
in sixes. On the banks
you can smell
personality cooked
over tin foil—tears
with every jab
blood with every blow.
Remember the utility
in loving fitfully?
Disassembled friends, we
drown now below
the currents, carrying
pocket curses. Filling
the gorge seven
axe handles deep.