In those days of stolen crisp apples
pressed in young mouths, not yet
able to form the words thievery,
rapscallion, trespass, we lay back
on green grass looking skywards,
knowing sweetness mixed with
sourness was a new sensation,
unaware of its grip on our way
of thinking, its enduring presence,
we were too young to see the dress
swirling in the distance as more than
the presence of a girl, the rising hem
as nothing more than legs, breezes
having their way, her tresses flowing
likewise, as one of those things
coming from just being there, us/we
without an agenda, any sense of
anything, except days stretching out
into each other, without darkness or
bitter winds, with teeth that bit, rough
tongues that cut, put us in our place.