That summer with a thousand Julys

nothing mattered but the sweat on a girl’s chest,

the sun’s crazy blue weather, and a young man’s

hands electric with want. The wind

above convertibles sighed in the cottonwood leaves,

the stars were stars, and the moon shimmered

in its own silver heaven. He was king

of the swath a train whistle cut.

Crazy for speed, he held the girl and wheel

and plummeted toward the bottomlands,

foundry lights ablaze in the distance,

and war let him the songs he swore

he’d never forget. That summer

of week-long nights, blossom-dark,

fragrant with dew and a dust

as fine as milled flour, he dreamed.

And his dreams were all glory and light,

line drives than never fell, his friends

his friends forever, and war

let him sleep until noon and wake

with the scent of his girl around him,

remembering the night before—

how he sang of a loss he couldn’t imagine,

of broken hearts he could almost believe.