We needed a stone base; a house, but
all we could do was scrape our names silently
in the concrete foundation of the house
being built next door. We snuck into the skeleton
of a family room, or kitchen: It smells like the woods,
after it rains, we said.

Like wet classroom chalk the fresh stone
had molded to our touch. Even the leaves
left faint etches.

Years later, they moved
the house, the one built next door.
They lifted it whole, off the foundation
to wheel it away in four different parts.

Our names rest there—revealed,
still embedded in the stone.
Those aged scratches scream a silent
grave for our nine year old selves.