1

Entered the room; entered his lingering life,
Shelves with comics and baseball trophies,
Photographs taped to walls.

Quiet dust erupted at the weight of a body on the bed;
Springs protested with hoarse creaks;
Action figures stood sentinel.

Eyes closed
Images arose;
Us at eight
Drawing ‘till late.

I used his blue
He took my red;
We filled the page
Emptied our heads.

The TV played
Midnight shows;
We were absorbed
In the floor below.

2

Jesse, I asked the silent room,
When did we lose that world?
Tell me, please.

Upon, upon the sun-starved ground,
In the forest that we had found,
Far from the houses that crowded our thoughts,
Far from the people who shouted us silent,
Under the branches that shielded us from God–

I opened my eyes,
To the pale glow of plastic stars
Stuck to the ceiling;
I contemplated constellations.

3

Moved from the bed.
Pulled out a dormant dresser drawer.
Examined a painted shell.
Ran a finger along the teeth of a comb.
Sniffed a bottle of cologne.

Recall the road five summers ago,
When we drove to Mexico without a map.
Like falling leaves desiring the ground,
We followed any way that led south.
Once the signs were all in Spanish,
We turned west seeking the sea.
Finally arriving at a brown-grey beach,
We were surprised to find it nearly empty;
A man struggled to push a cart along the coast,
A pair of seagulls drifted mournfully just offshore,
A cold wind swept sand in our eyes.
Amarillo, he said, pointing.
I followed his finger to a kite,
Palpitating above the horizon.