Your friends won't try to talk you out of the barrel，

    or your brag¹ to go first， which has nothing to do with bravery.

    And you're so hungry to earn their love you forget

    to claim first your， perhaps， last look at this mountain-

    crab² apples hanging sour in the sun， abandoned Buick，

    a favorite place to play， dismantled³ and weathered

    and delicate as a voting booth. Instead you dive straight away

    and headfirst into darkness， the steel drum that dusts you，

    like a chicken part， with rust⁴. Looking out， there's nothing

    to see of your friends but their calves⁵， which are scabby，

    and below them the filthy⁶ sneakers， shifting， shifting，

    every foot aching to kick you off this cliff.

    Their faces， you know， are blank with anticipation⁷，

    the look you see when they watch TV eating popcorn⁸.

    They're already talking about you as if you're gone，

    as if you boarded a bus and roared out of earshot，

    when one foot flashes forward and launches you.

    You know as you feel that first solid slam you are lost.

    The barrel changes shape with each crash to earth，

    as you will later， assuming and losing lives， but this

    is so true now： ankles flayed⁹ to the bone， cracked ribs¹⁰

    and crushed mint， the brittle¹¹， pissy sumac. Right now

    the pin oaks are popping in their sockets¹²， the hillside

    wears your shoes， clouds pleat and buck¹³. You know， of course，

    that no one's going second， and friends who tell this story

    will use the word idiot， rolling their hands in the air，

    but you know you know what your life is for now and rise up，

    and just about scalp yourself on that tree limb above you，

    another thing you couldn't possibly know was coming，

    another which， like your first breath， was not your idea.