LSD with M
I do not remember which came first –
the storm of serotonin or the spring rain
that was first a soft dance and then
a stomping torrent and then a thundering flood.
The hopeful boys were there, trailing after you,
picking up the crumbs, turning scent to secrets.
I think even now, during slow days, fast years,
our faces turned to the West,
those boys remain boys
when they think of you
and your inviting laugh, impossible hair,
wild eyes blue as lupines
in the high mountain sun.
When the flashing joy took hold
and shook us out of the little sense we had
you grabbed my hand, or I grabbed yours,
and we tripped into the rain,
asphalt gleaming like satin ribbon.