Much less mattered then, yet in some ways it mattered much more.
Every year it mattered both more and less than before.
There was a brittle kind of innocent sensuality
There was an attempt to understand causality
There was a love of play and incipient mental agility
There was cruelty and some defiant fantasies
And a dreaminess to the real that floated in and out the door

Harpo Marx tore the strings out of a piano
That kind of crazy made more sense than manners and such
Groucho insulted everyone with a flair for only rudeness

Even then a part of me was interested in nudeness
I smacked a girl with a stick because she was cutting our grass
It attracted me strangely, her defiant fear and excitement
It was a lovemaking I have never forgotten, both pleasure and shame
My father was watching and told we what I did was wrong
I knew he was right but agreed when DH Lawrence told me he was wrong
I knew that too all along
A conjunction conundrum, a deadeye mix of pride and blame
Another memory that refused to integrate, another impasse

Living when young is too precious to ignore
But then isn’t every moment? Who gets to decide
Whether life is worth living? Nobody. Yet the question never goes away
While we keep looking for the line we really want to walk

To remain alive, to continue fresh and brave inside.