IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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FOR STEPHEN

Christopher Brookhouse

Seventeen, no great event He says. He glides past us With undisturbed intent. He would photograph well Easing into the jeep Whose military shell He painted red to cover The old green wounds, That war long over. This boy, this innocence, Brown, summer muscle Flexed without pretense. There are no mysteries For him. The winter branch Always leafs into light. Supreme biology. His days shine with chance. I follow his car in mine. Dust rises from our road. Three months without rain, Already some of the pines I planted a year ago Are dead. When we reach The highway, we go Apart. Always the wrong time To tell my son what I mean. He doesn't see my wave. When I was seventeen I didn't look back either.

 
 
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