We were still growing into our shoes
when I found my father's radio
and took you to a summer field.
While twisting to Sam Cooke
you showed me a body
that could move like words
through the pollen above the grass.
As the sky deepened overhead,
we became two harmonics
spreading out against the night,
and in my hands I felt you
warming like an old vacuum tube.
Comments about this poem (Fourteen by Allen Blue )
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