We sit at the top of the playground slide,
talk of the shine in a city elsewhere. Yet we’re
moths, you and I, dancing around northern street lamps,
trapped by some false light in our small-time town
that keeps hearts and wings from turning south.
Then everything falls silent, and we know,
know for one brief moment of teenage clarity,
that life will be good and worth the wait.
And we each hold the new knowing
close to our ribs, and don’t speak of it,
just in case it isn’t true.