For Paul

He works a solid post of steel between
straight teeth and grinds against enamel. Songs
of ruthless youth careen in flats and sharps
off swollen tongue and crowd the winter air.

I see him coming off the half-pipe hard:
a clench of sinew floating on the edge.

He drops, one arm outstretched to catch the earth.
the other winging wildly skyward as
his songs become the splintered echoing
of fractured branches under heavy snow.