was ghastly vast, a throat too swollen to swallow, as I followed him in— he who owned a switchblade and told me only take it out if you’ll use it. He who toed the water naked and lit a cigarette before dipping in. My quarry, it dragged like a hook and hid him in the wreck of a dredger for me to find. We fell into atrophy and used it as excuse for what our hands were doing. Me, unbelieving, weak from the jeans I slipped off and tossed to an evergreen. My back bone-white and bruised, I wanted to be new for him. He who chewed chaw. He who swore he’d pull me into a bar fight sometime. When he said every year a bunch of teens drown in quarries I understood and was underwater before the beam of the night patrol flashed the waves we waited below— shaky ghost of a man I didn’t know and him a handhold away.