It’s not too late. Our heads haloed with gnats & summer too early to leave any marks. Your hand under my shirt as static intensifies on the radio. Your other hand pointing your daddy’s revolver to the sky. Stars dropping one by one in the crosshairs. This means I won’t be afraid if we’re already here. Already more than skin can hold. That a boy sleeping beside a boy must make a field full of ticking. That to say your name is to hear the sound of clocks being turned back another hour & morning finds our clothes on your mother’s front porch, shed like week-old lilies.
