The Summer of 89

In the cool pond of youth we once bathed carelessly.
Under an oak tree with knotted arms and twisted leaves,
mixing hot breath with naiveté,

We used a sewing needle and a bit of ice to impale our
earlobes while dew formed on the Midwestern grass.
The threat of discovery kept us sharp.

The next summer I got my drivers license,
you found Nietzsche and the Bauhaus,
and we traded infidelities.