You can’t join us on the swings;
YOU can’t join us on the swings;
Swings and swinging, I swang the swing
in solitude. Solemnly swinging, I grasped
and grappled this guesswork—
half defiance, half routine;
I am a whole composed
of halves, of halves, of halves, of halves;
all of these halves inhabit one small town.
Syracuse schooled me to be me
by way of boys, Bibles, books, booze,
but also by stark swings,
swings that swing souls
so scripted by status, sadness,
school, sickness.

Staring at the silvery sphere by the stars,
maybe it has an explanation to explain
the explanation of what I can’t grasp—

stability; just like the moon’s existence has
existed in existence for all of existence,
existing as it has always existed, is existing,
and will exist.

You can’t join us on the swings;
but if this me looks like you, and you, and you,
if this me denies me
can I join you on the swings?

We sit and swing, we, you and me that is you, but
who is me?
I wrestle, I mourn, but then recall
the moon makes shadows despite darkness,
reflects, refracts;
the moon mirrors the sun, to become its existence.

I was once told what I’m not—
you’re not, you’re not, you’re not—
and became the moon;
near side reflects their sun,
brilliance unlike me;
dark side where me hides
and always remember,
I’m twenty-one years old,
and I can’t join them on the swings.