Child

You told me that I would sparkle like the
sunset on Ocean Avenue one day,
fading in and out between the clouds
of conversation and silence,
between the spinning suns
and our whimsical desires.
There was always something
about the darkness we hated,
the empty street cars
and burned out lampposts.
We would litter the streets with
our tiny footsteps,
kick pine cones all the way home
on muggy August evenings.
We were desperately running from
what we couldn't see,
as if the unknown would
break the moon in half,
shatter the thin wall of space
between us and expose
shards of light
too raw to touch.
Your hand is coarse in mind,
but the Forsythia still blooms.