Home again, or back here at the houseI grew up in, I see three boys on bikesleave the woods at the dead end,the sun caught in the twig branchesabove them, the winter sky breath bluegiving way to purple, then to pink—a landscape cold to the eye even if seenthrough a frame, even if seen at a distancewithout a lens. The boys almost look like us,or as we did in adolescence, Nick, me, and you,living in those woods each day after schooland through the summers, knowing every trail,every goose creek and marsh, every tree fortand hill. The silver guardrail at the dead endreflected light like an opened gate, a voicecalling us in as if someone carved a hexinto the bark of every tree, a new senseof freedom widening, or so we…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2024