Brooksville

A cottonwood seed lands 
sweetly on your neck. You slap 

it, mumble damn skeeters, hike 
your pants & light a Camel;

a bead of sweat clings to the round end 
of your nose. We speak to each other

in inches, halves, quarters, eighths, and cut
yellow pine to length in turn. Columns 

of sunlight warm our backs—we ignore 
splinters and the sawdust in our hair.   

We raise walls and eat sandwiches on the truck’s tailgate,
boots dangling above the crabgrass and nettle.

The creek splashes white & crawfish back under 
the rocks to hide from the afternoon sun.

Our fresh ghosts cry at us in rasps.
We’ve been dodging them for months now.

I give in and ask if you’re okay. You rub your 
busted knuckles and hiss inward through your teeth, 

we’ll be good soon. A house sparrow lands 
at our feet. We feed it a crust of bread.  

You offer me a smoke; I can’t say no. White puffs dance 
on the breeze among the mosquitos and honeysuckle.