I heard stories of parties where kids would get high and jump.
Climb willow trees
before rush and release,
cutting harsh lines through laughter.
Testing their mortalities,
they’d leap to prove things
like cats had no claim,
like nothing else could ride this wave of volition,
like as long as they kept jumping
they wouldn’t lose it.
The porticoes of wealthy parents’ blind eyes
cast in spotlights from below.
Fitting backdrops for foolish backgrounds.
And they’d do it because everything else
was running so hard and fast away from them.
That their sixteen,
seventeen,
eighteen years were all disappearing less slowly into now,
mere flashbulbs of memory.
But as long as they were here
streaking the sky,
they could keep it for a moment.
As if in this moment were a hundred thousand forevers.
As if forever was now.
As if all there was was now
and forever