Mother's face a haze behind the screen, calling the flickering shapes of our names. War games, copters, mortars, machine guns in the hands of boys. The young planets flung out to slow and cool. A battalion of frogs, all of us drunk, strung out behind the targets, somebody crying, somebody throwing up, the sudden quiet and what passes for sleep, car radio cutting through it, news of Apollo tracking to the moon . Old man, come back from the moon.
Nobody goes there anymore.
Carry your rainbow rumpled in your arms again. Bury it here.