In the waking light
I memorize the way
miniature caramel curls
write their names at the edge of his neck,
like love graffiti
on a junior high notebook.
he looks like the boy I never knew,
a small stranger who refused to cry
when gravel stole the skin from his kneecaps,
but wrapped lanky legs around
the bald blue bicycle
and pedaled stoically away,
blood running down his shins
like a fading summer creek.
-Lo, sliding #8 in under the wire.