The Line
It’s when you cross the line
Jerk back over, a near miss, pull
Off the highway O my god O my
God O my god in a citrus grove
Turn off your engine, say sorry
So sorry, caught up in talking
Under the mountains, the moon
Illumines every leaf, and then,
Catching your breath, your eyes
Wide at the re-engaging crickets
When you kiss with the emergency
Brake gouging into your thigh
Her hair soft and blond and punk
(Like it’s not even there) Yours
Is wet, boastful, curly and long
Your name is Awkwa this summer
Sneaking Dining Hall cheesecakes
Immersing the body in the stream
Guitaring songs into the woods
To warn the bear it will be shot
Tree sap chocolate dust
Go backpacking alone above
Treeline. Forget parents’ visit
Another girl, Naomi, waitress
At the Main Camp dining room
Hair straight black and long
Will write you 12 page letters
For seven years until you walk
The streets of Santa Barbara
Forlorn she's gained since
Kissing her on the steps over-
Looking folds of the valley
Hold yourself down lengthwise
In the current. Cry for the bear
Cramp-up swimming to the middle
Of pond, half drown at 19
Alive with envy, ego, repression
Recognizing none of it, running
Across needles strewn under
Outstretched arms of sugar pine
Strange as it may seem
Each girl is better than
The last, less shallow
Exponentially more sexy
Young and lean and wild,
Like the bear, adolescent
Chasing it uphill with stones
And screams to stay away
In the wilderness, but it
Will cross that line
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