Out on the sunlit dust our games

had trampled hard, we teemed, we bloomed

like microbes sprung from hell

or fallen from heaven

all over each other,

all chickenfight and face-slap tag

and loose-mouthed splattering sounds, until

Bob Hamlin stopped the dirt clod.

Or rock, was it.  Against his temple

I heard it snick,

and he gave a little

moan, and bowed deeply,

saving his back-to-school clothes

from an ooze

that suddenly hung there,

plumb and red in the morning air,

like a tether winding shorter,

drawing him downward into a figure

perfectly rectangular:

blood, ground, and broken boy.

                                                                                                       Rhino (2007)