In the greenspring dark,
your foot finds a rock upon which
to trip as the neighbor’s girl

skips on the far sidewalk.
Lying hurt on your belly,
you can’t

get yourself up to go back in.
So you stay.  You stay while the grass
under the moon swallows you.

Her mother calls her in for the night.
Ah well, it’s warm out here. Alone
under the moon in the grass.

There’s a fence, and something moves
along it at the groundline.  Possum,
skunk, no scent carries to you

so something else perhaps.  It stays away.
Maybe it smells you — a stink
of draining health?  It’s cold under

the moon.  You’re on your belly
and hurt.  It’s fine.  Under the greenspring
dark, it’s not hard to consider

ending here among animals
who will eventually draw near
even as the neighbors drift away,

even as you drift away.  By day
it’ll be so easy for them to see you there
on your belly, your last thought

a memory
of a skipping child
and the lowering greenspring dark.