It could be anything. A shadow cuts
into the sun. We tried to pilfer fire
and got away with it. Allotment huts,
waste ground: the secret places where we'd try a
shared fag that made us sick, come rushing back.
We're kids again, all trying to pretend
more knowledge than the rest, less fear, no lack
of previous experience
. The end
might be a whimper, though these sheds are dry,
and home to sacks of chlorate, plastic cans
with magic-markered legends. Boys don't cry,
don't think of consequences much. A man's
stretched on a rock. An eagle's tearing at
his liver. Smoking kills. Something like that.

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