once we drank so hard the world splintered
shards floated in slow motion
reflected hints of youth

as the morning light glances on the pond’s surface
I can only make out shapes beneath
those close by

farther out the sun’s bright presence overtakes
the story, the reel of its first scenes play out
in typical cinematic frames

we ran along the river up the big hill
the path that kept bending upward – was it spiral
as the Captain’s voice cajoled us forward

blindfolded we assembled rifles like elementary
puzzles like child’s bricks
snapping into oiled place

now your casket at a parade’s rest
so unlike your quick crackle of flow
not bullet nor the years but a sickness

a swift serpent struck you through the gaps
all I can see now is your permanent grin
hear your impish high-pitched laugh

we shared a room two mismatched brothers
the lamp spilled light across the text
and loose Marlboros

you have shut yours off
your voice diminished
reverberates still in the small space

like ripples moving inward to the point
inward where the pebble
first struck the surface

Corbett Buchly’s poetry has appeared in Panoply, SLAB, Rio Grande Review, Plainsongs, and Barrow Street. He is an alumnus of Texas Christian University and the professional writing program at the University of Southern California.