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

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