Boys and Stream

even god died here among

the stagnant ferns and milk pods

curdled on their stems like withered birds,

until the truant boys came thrashing

through the brush, splashed

and tripped the water up.

until, that is, they lit their cigarettes and fire-breathed,

their faces red tips branding

stars into the water’s lifeless eyes.

but not entirely until, hip-deep,

they sank into their virgin dreams as

wild men, the first real men, truly free men

and then the stream,

pulsing and coursing,

awoke.