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.