Body: True Story

I stood on a wheat-grassed hill, It's crest a overpass. Pine rows below overgrown. Forming into forest behind. My childhood grounds. Three boys, friends in time Winter of "78" When clouds dropped heavy Deep covering, white cold Draging sleds, overstuffed In snowsuits. The boys used this hill With joyous lust And loud laghter. Slicing with metal runners Above depths of storms. A ramp. Formed snow tight. Near bottoms incline. Shot there pleasure upwards Twards a haze of gray, In the quick, gravity's glee Bodies held tight, gut waiting For ramps flight. Later that spring A newspaper tucked Under my arm Told of a woman,a body. Beaten, burnt Left in the fall. We stood, three boys looking. Polices tap streamers, And vehicle tracts. Seeing black Reminisce On white grass shoots. We could smell decay Were the ramp use to be. Three boys, guilty faces Scilently reminiscing joyouse lust On the back of violated dead Over and over to the haze of gray. Life kept the body and heavy. Burdend by snow-pleasure.