With and without

Puberty stripped me naked

in bumps and hair

that ravaged Ikea catalogues

and parents’ alcohol cabinets

where I turned wine back to water

after a night out with friends

and better friends who let me

see what they saw daily

and sometimes felt

if we had drunk enough

of the miracle

of each other’s company

and the night that dripped

into our eyes

but breezed through our fingers

and the spaces between bodies

the way only a breath can

while jazzing with june bugs

that wait until the next season

where you’ll grow into the ground

just a little bit more

and a lot more bare

for the clothes erode

then you do

and the dark goes on

with

and without

your eyes tonight