like a child does with a box
of colored chalk on the sidewalk. And I skipped
and hopped on each square, with one leg up. And
pleasure was the order of the day. That was then,

when I placed the world on the hot
cement. After each rainfall, and the brush of
the leaves or the chill of the snow the colors bleed
into a possum. And we both wondered if

it’s dead or alive. Did we contrive
what it was when it lit the whole **** street -
was merely a figment, a child-like dream.