Sometimes (Backwood)

Shrugging off school we roll slow over gravel. Hiss-and-crunch soothes me, river-tumbled granite kicking up

gray-blue. We smoke blunts sweet with bright leaf tobacco. Here’s me, bench seat, laughing like

I’ll be seventeen forever. I’m headbanded, the high shot-through and resinous. Last hit glimmers me open. A Backwood

should come damp, sepia veined. You’ll unwind its loose spiral. I still have miles of low roads in -side me. Feel your ghost breath down the back of my life.