My brother has two rocks so he gives me one. We shoot them across the red soil and they bounce like they’ve got some place better to be.

We move through the night, Burt and I. My brother who has stayed up past his bedtime. Who has followed me into the night where the crickets line against the houses deep in song

He hands me a scrabble dictionary. He wants me to squawk words at him in the middle of the night. We sit on his mother’s couch.

The sky is squeegeed cloudless. He’s seeing a sunbather on the side. I picture her breasts, skin burnt by tar paper on the roof.