out back by the runway
fence, dirty air settling now
cool movement just brushing the
backs of our hands before
the rounds pop, so far away
we’re not sure … is it?
is it?
then your palm on the back
of my collar, one lift and hard
shove down the narrow
lane between sandbags and
we’re full out, laughing and
fucking well near panic
to be fair, still, I fall
headlong and laughing hard
onto my trailer floor, panting.
orphan poems 