We played Frisbee
until the moon had winked
its light exploding
into a gauzy sheath
enveloping the backyard arms
of St. Matthew’s house

We had spent 3 hours
putting Life back into
our half-remembered
Radio Flyer days,
Counting,
(with only slight success)
The number of lightning bugs
Nestled like
Glowing pebbles
Into the far corner of the garage

The flitting disk had soared about
Careening with the weightlessness
Of spontaneity
And landed spastically in
My open palms

Curling in,
Then thrusting out
With cursed limbs
and Billy laughs,
As I send it fleeing
Into the swift embrace
Of the surly maples.

It is on nights like these,
Standing on the threshold of our adulthood
That the stubborn seconds all subside
Into the quiet hum
Of our teenage oblivion.
Time
For once
Cooperates
With the wishes
Of the world’s split-second inhabitants.