The Boy Next Door from Beat to Beat

A porch swing bolted to 121 hamilton,
the back of your head coming and going in rhythm
dissolving into numbers
summing up increments of one
like adding you, not with all the einsteinian crap
which I love as conceptual forplay,
but would much rather trade zeros and ones.

Down my arm on paper it seems to add up,
no siblings, absent father, working mom,
pink blanket blue blanket
days apart and plots adjoining.

We counted beetles before we set them on fire
sold cool aid to make change
and I perfumed my hair with lead pencil dust
held your gaze out of time
and divided by two.