I made a promise not to die here, drinking beer on railroad tracks before bottles stopped raining in the woods. I promised and it would have been a promise kept, but I was met with an antagonist who said,
“Look, you’re a pragmatist, and know you are here for good.”
I made a rule once I was too old to smoke pot in front of the high school, I would never reminisce, but I did and I do, threading an era through my fear of change.
Because it’s strange, watching meadows we played become perfectly placed duplexes, entire sections of a childhood built over. Where we laid beneath the stars counting solar systems and naming objects in the distance they built a mall, and doll, the night sky has adapted
horizons are colder.
I resolved once
that first kiss had come
and gone, the bond would be
worth all roads that led to it.
But I’m here
and it’s not
the red brick
dream I pegged it to be,
just hangovers of
the heart being weaned off