At the Edge
Every moment
an eighteen-year-old kid lives
is like a deep breath.
On a summer night,
a warm car hood and fireflies,
whiskey and the stars.
Sexuality-
a wild charge between their legs,
a heartbeat, a catch.
Playing with limits
that they blow past and kick up
like dust, like nothing.
All dark red petals.
All gas pedals and motor oil.
Garden and garage.
When you hold a bomb,
the finer details are lost.
It's just that one thing,
as live as a wire,
as long as a starlit night,
rubbed raw, exhausted.
Young people play their
music so loud so they don't
hear the ticking clock.
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