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Poem

As little boys 
we rode bikes
fast down the dunes,
on the vertical side
of Sand City

Big tires creased
deep furrows 
in the down-slope,
same as boats trailing
wakes upon the swell

At the leeward portion
of the great sand hills
the long bronze 
shadows of late noon 
stretched to east

Meeting low pines
over ice plants
just as early suppers
smoked the spice
into mists above

Under which boys grew hungry
and boys grew weary 
when drawn on-shore,
but grew bold again
when looking back to sea

Then fortified, soon returned
astride soft summits
as if to challenge 
the long leading 
boundary of night

A boundary against which
little boys are forbidden,
because bay breakers 
rage half-seen
against the land

Because the turnstiles 
of time get sand
in the gears and
the rising moon
comes fully into its own

Because the dawn sea 
compresses foggy dimensions
into the unlearned territory
of young hearts
with full moon in the eyes

Of four-foot warriors
solemn in afterthought
huddled in a circle
as night overtook
a long day of handiwork

And even the bike furrows
grew silent at last
their contours to vanish
in darkening flatness
somewhere below our feet

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