BURNT RACCOONS

Two boys in a car, underground in a graveyard, signaling with their radios.
There might be dusk above or spring. The boxers of the living could be jellyfish white and striding the sudden path without reason. Or briefs.

Breakfast is served or serves. Our car has a parking spot and the earth moves. One of us has a finger so long it is a periscope or a wireless seabird pale and awking unintelligently and distant from shore. How many waves scallop the sea and through our aboveground bodies on the way from satellite to carpet?

Underground in their wallets, the boys have ID cards, their faces expectorant and claiming. A boy grows his fingernail to rise above the surface, a pink and ragged daisy, a spittoon, a radiant spittoon, a king for all the wrong ants.

O radishes of springtime, let the boys drive and may the fingernail of sun, the massive fingernail of sky, the massive lips of breasts be fingernails, or roads, or burnt raccoons of the invisible mood, the bleb of lack, or lenses, and of dishes, or of the boys below in the lanes of their passing, in their earth of countertops and shore curtains.

Let the boys remember.