| At eight spring knocked me out bowled me over gob- smacked me every tree—redbud cherry, plum pear —a shock of color a blast of scent lifting me up |
At sixteen I lay with a boy naked in my mother’s bed gold filtering through half- closed blinds no need for sex, every- thing said in a look a hunger an in- drawn breath |
At sixty- four I climb a green over- look throw myself down under a wanton magnolia wake all night stunned by stars |
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