Three little boys dance flashlight rays off wooden ceilings, brewing tea of manliness. Discussing sex and women's nipples, seeing them in everything. Pubic hair not pulled by lies. Delilah dahlias growing in their swelling breasts. Too young to hear the deep throat owl.
Ears are deaf to warning blast.
The secret box they pass around has diaphragms, pictures of a naked girl. Not yet drenched by thunderstorms or cherry trees confined to seed. Not yet weeping at their fates or slipping on slick stage of love. Moons are spinning dimes to trade. Inside stirrings own the dawn.