Swings broke into the sky,
like angels. Like children,
the future burning above the trees.
Eyes open, hands open,
our voices still ring out of us,
spill out of us like familiar songs.

Young feet left valleys in the woodchips
and the heat has cracked us all open,
and nothing makes sense anyway, ever
but we still remember it,
the leap of stomachs
screaming “I am alive!”
and I remember you back then.

Somehow you are still here,
falling into the grass,
drunk and laughing and trying
to swing high enough