From Inches Away
From inches away his finger can’t miss
–the other kid plays dead, falls arm over arm
the way all games come with a well
are filled with wishes hardened into stones
sure the Earth would go along
though there’s no splash –what you hear
is the thud that purifies each death
as one aimless night followed by another
overflowing and this park
becomes the sudden laughter
you no longer get to be
are waiting for this dry wooden bench
to open, let you in, hear the stream
stones hear when young, not yet
sent to the bottom even in the afternoon.
