Start the memory, bright one,
you who let your life be invented
though not being invented had been more available

and remember those
who lit the abyss. The boys in science fair.
You were probably hall monitor at that time weren't you,
and you admired them;
on their generator, the spark bounced back and forth
like baby lightning
and you saw them run their fingertips
through its danger,
two promising loops stuck up to provide
a home for the sexual light
which was always loose when it wasn't broken,
free jot that didn't go anywhere
but moved between the wires
like a piece of living, in advance -

then later: how much
were you supposed to share?
The boys sat in front of your house at dusk,
the boys who still had parents.
Sometimes they held Marlboros out the car
windows and even
if they didn't, sparks fell from their hands.
Showers of sparks
between nineteen sixty-eight and the

hands were sleek
with asking sleek with asking;-

they had those long intermural after
the library type fingers
they would later put in you, - ah.
When? well,
when they had talked you into having a body
they could ask into the depths of

and they rose to meet you
against an ignorance that made you perfect
and you rose to meet them like a waitress of fire-

because: didn't
the spark shine best in the bodies
under the mild shooting stars
on the back-and-forth blanket
from the fathers' cars-
they lay down with you, in you, and when
did you start missing them.
As Sacramento missed its yellow dust in 1852.
When did you start missing those
who invented your body with their sparks-

they didn't mind being
plural. They put
their summer stars inside of you,

how nice to have. and then:
the pretty soon. Pretty
soon you were a body, space, warm
flesh warm (this)
(this) under
the summer meteors that fell
like lower case i's above
the cave of granite where the white owl slept
without because or why
what first evening of the world...