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.