ice skating

there is an old mark

on my shin, alabaster

from when we hopped

over that fence, bars

a million lines on ice,

and the green grass, bladed

like the feet of others sweeping and

scratching their marks, alabaster

as we twisted our ankles in joy

in that white ring, and afterward

when we skated to the bus station

and i cradled my shin across two chairs

on the ride back home

upon a thin ice of dreams