The dirt road rose abruptly through a wood
just west of Scranton, strewn by rusty wire,
abandoned chassis, bottles, bits of food.
We used to go there with our girls, those nights
in summer when the air like cellophane
stuck to your skin, scaling the frenzied heights
of teenage lust. The pebbles broke like sparks
beneath our tires; we raised an oily dust.
The headlights flickered skunk-eyes in the dark.
That way along the hill’s illumined crown
was Jacob’s ladder into heaven; cars
of lovers, angel-bright, drove up and down.
There was a quarry at the top, one strip
worked out, its cold jaws open, empty-mouthed.
A dozen cars could park there, hip to hip.
There I took Sally Jarvis, though we sat
for six hours talking politics. I was
Republican, and she was Democrat.
We talked our way through passion, holding hands;
the moon, gone egg-yolk yellow in the sky,
tugged firmly at our adolescent glands.
I kissed her once or twice, far too polite
to make a rude suggestion, while the stars
burned separately, hard as anthracite.
The city was a distant, pinkish yawn
behind our backs as we leant head to head.
The dead-end quarry held us there till dawn.