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Boy by Jack Simmons

Where I live the streets die at nine,
and you dine on the silence,
and you shake the beads from the bushes
and you think of the kiss, the brisk
brushing lips of two boys.
You sit in a dead field.
The horses leg it to the slumped sun.
Imagine the Earth sighing just for me.
I am not some fluttering Kangura caught
in high grass, not missing children or a head,
open like a rose. Not a smoking church,
the whistling of hot fat, the Berlin Wall
or a dog.
I’m just a boy hung up on a boy.
I’m a boy with a bomb in him.