even god died here among
the stagnant ferns and milk pods
curdled on their stems like withered birds,
until the truant boys came thrashing
through the brush, splashed
and tripped the water up.
until, that is, they lit their cigarettes and fire-breathed,
their faces red tips branding
stars into the water’s lifeless eyes.
but not entirely until, hip-deep,
they sank into their virgin dreams as
wild men, the first real men, truly free men
and then the stream,
pulsing and coursing,
awoke.