1.

Deer tracks
chase sunlight.

Moments
of discovery
are covered
over

in new moments
of discovery

followed by
moments doused
in shame.

Someone is banging
on something,
and then howling
for something
high above,

way beyond
the probable,
like thumbs
landing on tables.

Fear alternates
with exhilaration.

Exhilaration melts.

The story fails.

But it fails after
brief success.

It’s a story
of returning
to beginnings

after a brief
and gleeful journey
into something
no one bargained for.

It is the story
of longing
again.

Of climbing.

And, finally,
of stumbling
to a final
hoarse,
harsh,
dying
cry.

2.

When the girl came
home from work,
the boy half woke
to the sound
of the front door
closing.

He whispered
something
inaudible.

Nobody heard.

The girl
was downstairs.

The boy drifted,
slipped
into a sleep
that lasted

until after midnight
when he had
no choice
but to get
up and pee.

3.

The first time
we went down
to Florida,
we all got sunburnt.

We spent most
of the holiday
lying in bed,
putting Noxzema
on our skin,

and Grandma ran
around her house
looking nervous,
saying things like,

“Why did you do it,”
and “I told you
not to
do it,”
and
“you’re getting grease
all over
my good sheets.”

In later years,
when we visited
Grandma,
we’d go out
in the sun
for a half hour
only.

And we’d turn
ourselves regularly,

like roasts.

Watch Ken Sparling reading “Three Poems”: