late august seminar in andrews hall
the fields
along I-80 are dark as
three years back
when you moved
behind every stalk
in the side-spill
of my headlights--
silent trips
only three weeks
four weeks
five
after your death marked for me
a new accounting of days
three years and I am here
and something like your arm
has wrapped itself around me
your hands
steer me through campus
the way you slid your bik...
late august seminar in andrews hall
the fields
along I-80 are dark as
three years back
when you moved
behind every stalk
in the side-spill
of my headlights--
silent trips
only three weeks
four weeks
five
after your death marked for me
a new accounting of days
three years and I am here
and something like your arm
has wrapped itself around me
your hands
steer me through campus
the way you slid your bike
in and out of traffic
wind in your long hair
force of all that was behind you
guiding, pushing
counting keeps me
looking back
you, there behind me
not changing--
shrinking with distance
the spot on that narrow road
where I listened for you
in the grass
the gravel of that shoulder
the crescent of black rubber
mapping your short encounter
with something too heavy to resist
you're coming up again
from behind me
the windows are black
late summer is rolling over
into night
the pavement cooling outside
the fever rippling
toward the sky
the dashboard lights
are pale green and orange
how fast I'm not going
how little time has elapsed
how far I haven't been
my headlights hardly touch
the edge of night as I
tug each marker up
from murky water
counting off the next mile
this side of you
Kirk, Coming Down
Here on highway 6, between my feet, they've marked with orange spray-paint, the spot where you landed. Down there, by the tall grass is where they say you were hit. The paper said the man driving just fell asleep for a moment, and your bike was clearly over on the shoulder. Now, it's just a matter of the settlement, no one's pressing charges. They've marked your departure point and where you came to rest, but in between: twenty-five feet of nothing but air and time.
One track meet in
Middleschool
I came out during the rain to
watch you jump.
It was cold
you stripped off
your sweats
down to nothing but
your tank-top and shorts.
Your shoes looked too heavy
swinging on the ends
of your long skinny legs
and you bounced them
on the runway
shifting your weight back
and forth.
You paced off your approach
for the last jump
marked a takeoff point
by placing a wet twig
at the end
of the crescent you measured.
I stood as the rain became deafening
on the surface
of the nylon mat.
This'll be the last jump of the day
coach said.
You hit the twig
and lifted up into the rain
against a thousand
tiny droplets
stretching back, your arm
out
your eyes fierce
and peering back
over your shoulder.
Your torso snapped like a whip
making a loop
of your legs
that unfurled itself
an inch above the bar
and slung your
sneakers up and over.
Look at him fly
just look at him fly
and it seemed
like you'd never come down.
Then you did,
you cleared
the bar, hit the mat
and slid, sending a sheet
of thin rain arching like
tempered glass in front of
our eyes.
Summer of Whistles
We used to walk down the tracks
where it was so bright
the sun seemed to eat away the brown
discarded metal.
We made whistles out of some
(summer of whistles)
until you found that dollar
and the day passed
while we were making plans.
The can we kicked home
echoed, and I looked expecting two other boys
to come around the corner
ahead, they never did--- never did I tell you...
We came to my house
about the time the wind
tousled the trees and your hair
and I grew small under a darkening sky
watching you run fast down the blocks
till your speck turned
out of sight toward your house.
Sometimes I almost cried.
I don't know why I never told you...
That night, I knew you were listening to
the rumble and the rain.
I knew tomorrow would be dry.
I dreamed of you and your dollar bill, of the
sun, and rusty whistles. I dreamed that
tomorrow...
I would tell you
how much I loved you.
Kirk Miller
1964 to 1992
