Boy Crazy
The echoes of sirens and cicadas,
and the drunk boys who howl
into the trees at 2 a.m. infect
my window while I sleep,
and I’m pulled into a girl I once was,
calling for love into a sky transected
by power lines until sunset when the town
tightened into itself. I prayed for a boy’s
wolf life, the dream of skulking along
streets with hunger and immunity.
I wanted to cup the moon’s curve
in my hand like it belonged to me,
that was how young I was.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggA603C2SBmp6di-4aFfpN651zwj2Fd9z177FrxjJwsVwcp4LmPcpnK4sFKkSwgeEWBKP_x9s3hbmV-mxnYOMybwAqpL18F2EQy-h-h3jlbSsx8td0ojXsqQhwiKB2-ibGnlUTtQlNcS8/s320/nprpoet-27d6c117f103479b8f5622fb3e95615507a6f783-s800-c85.jpg)
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