And that summer I forgot about pain
when there was pain. And that August
I wore white, drank red.
The blow dotted my stache.
And when they continued
asking him to see if he hadn’t od’d,
if his mind was still there, if his lips
were just accident blue and not
dead blue. He lifted himself up
and some of us thought it was a joke.
Others took photos and story’d.
I gave him my sunglasses.
Someone covered him in a shirt.
And he said to them…
(though no one knew who he was,
and everyone wanted to fuck him)
he who is without sin among you
(but you know, that was a different party;
not in The Grove, not in the year 2020).
And I can still see his face
and the way he looked at me
when he came to.
When he pressed his hand
against a palm for balance.
And we called him a car.
A White Audi. I never knew his name.
Or if he got home. Or why
he didn’t have clothes on.
But baby if you’ve ever been lost
and if you’ve ever been sad
and done something you shouldn’t.
You nod. And you linger. You make do.
You don’t cast the first stone.