Standing in the June heat outside
a dank, dreary Andersonville bar,
not hustling your ass for a night in
your apartment, how young were we?
Had I dissolved into a post-fantasy
version of me, potent past the little
first edition you had me sign (Aughts
energy, whirlwinds, celebrities, cities,
caught up in a new century blowing
instant nuts off instantly), or was it
the same old Indiana shuck & jive—
in love, lust, life, lit, to move past
corn is to be husked, cradled down
into shallow graves; all selves underground?