Plan

This poem will end:

A summer evening, the twilight

striated, green marble veined with lapis and I

am twelve years old, home alone and listening--

crickets, moths being crucified, the semi whistling

along the highway, beyond the blackened hill. 

Through the rusty screens, the fallen

glass of maturing windows,

Janis Ian is singing something sad
and clever.  Some poetry is a glistening 

shiver.  I am feeling 

my flesh, my bare chest,

my thick and tanned legs, the air.

My courageous feet 

meet the cooled cement, my eyes 

the watercolour sky.

Its true, I am crying.  I am

cracked open,

stripped naked, left

undefended

by this song.