I remember the night 
he and I found a cathedral
traced into the snow. In twilight 
we’d combed our periwinkle streets
for a swing-set to exhume. We knew
by then the leaves had lived their little deaths,
that those wisteria-worn evenings
of June were somewhere else,
but still we sweat searching. He looked
like a pylon in his snow clothes and
I looked at him. As
we trudged, he spun his gaze into the sky
and from beside him I surmised 
he hid his sense in that place
where he dropped his pencils
and left right gloves—
somewhere lost to him. 
I wanted him to lick the gaps
between my teeth. But he wanted
girls. So,
we tickled time with tension
until we saw it there
from atop Shepherd Park,
etched into the field below.
There lay this chapel in the snow,
its spires detailed, its size stretched,
its God flattened. We slid
on our asses down to it
and searched for a signature
but found none.
I turned to leave but
he asked me to wait. He then
waddled across the field,
‘round the walls of this leveled basilica
till he stopped by
what looked like a window. I
asked him what he was doing. In reply,
he let his pants drop
to the snow. He was bare. And for
a moment it was still.
with a sigh, he began
to pee in the window,
staining glass with chilled honey,
sailing cackles into branches
spilling ice onto the earth.
I gazed through the
dusk at his desecration. He had
forged his name and froze it
in his amber. But for what?
Now, somewhere else
in some coming world
of mud and moss, I shiver
at his boyish augury:
He could violate anything.