Your hand was in mine next to the clapboard shed
(layer upon layer of us and peeling enamel)
as far back as life played in black and white.
I could make up an age and say we were ten
when we knew how to build a dam with flat rocks
carefully and long before we knew how to make love.
You had to be home before the streetlights came on
so we took pieces of shale and scratched letters
softly on the road so the world would see them.