In our youth, glaciers winged free to the highway. We
shouldered off constantly repaved roads, bitten
by frost in winter, bubbled black tar in summer. We
soak in memory through hands, bitten—
fisted blue and turquoise, until the marbled gem, glaciers
ran through our fingertips, clear—
slow and fruitless. Calling
glaciers cobwebbed time—clear
painted gold, adults called them keys. Calling
photographic chemistry ocean cremations—called
babied by age. Without knowing the sting of bees. Calling
to the future, called
In our youth, we regret the earth;
we regret the chance to touch something.
