boys on their bicycles
shout in their cell phones
a bit of correspondence
as loud as they can
everyone around here
pedaling or transparent
the moles inch down
many smallish autumns
one boy breaks from the rest
and smiles a little, nothing spectacular
one soldiers on, his plastic
feet forever molded together
through medication
or sunglasses
an assemblage of bottles
preface the porch stair
and I have forgotten
what I meant to say
when the horizon
again opens its kiosk