Really, we fell from bramble-scrawled oak trees,

became snow angels without snow. Instead

we made wings from the swept scars of lawn grass.

After the mower blade cut, we tucked

green shards between armpits, against elbows.

It was still summer still, but hardly, and we took turns

jumping off limbs to let the wind escape us, again

and again. On purpose we fell. Our throats scratched

as we gasped for air, first him, then me. And then he

reached over, put his lips on mine and blew breath,

mouth to mouth, as if I suffered from drowning,

as if my lungs were pails of water instead of dry,

hollow. Until I breathed in, and the wind again

made me feel like tumbling, like tumbling after.