The pavement opens to a lot.
Cars seem purple and obscure.
The pebbles, catching hazy stars,
curb wheels like an orbit, or boys.
We skate all night like this,
orange skins turning bruise red.
We peel each other’s bandages
with questions, like hooked arms
on knees, like knees colliding gravel, pains
and hands gripping into place, like they belong
there, this skin, sticking the night
in its place. This repeating silence
back and forth is beet-colored, unmade and holding.
