Bark
we ran feral in loamy woods
shooting arrows and guns
you played father for me
high in the rough bent
arms of the cherry tree
marking the thin margin
between our homes
by twelve you had already grown
into the man they had carved
I looked for you
through window screens
and around doorjambs
as the heroin began to leak
into leaden pipes
I was your wild thing
you sculpted my guitar
from boards,
nails & rubber bands
