Nothing takes
in this much bare sun—
the noon-white sloughing off leaves
me shadeless, my body
aching for a shadow the way
a shadow aches for a body.

Without contrast
there is no definition. I am flat
here before your window,
as flat as your rope swing or the old
skateboard in the hedge. I want to
call but know

it won't stick.
Out here, I can make
no promises. I hear
the microwave sound and you
cross the room with such purpose
I feel even more like a construction

paper cut out fixed
to a popsicle stick. If I could
just get you out
here long enough to show you
the ghosts of our childhood aren’t even
ghosts. The woods are still

all tied up with old magic.
But sound and locomotion fail
under these searing rays. I'm knotted
to this spot, my arm reaching to you
then slapping back at my chest, a stormborn
branch in no wind and no rain.