Just to say the words, sundrenched barn,
makes me long for those summers when
all we did was be young, untroubled
by identity, the body just the body
the way the barn was just the barn, 
forbidden because it might combust
those hot July days when we climbed in
anyway through the small back window
to leap and leap into the choking hay. 
But I don’t want to reproduce my story.
It’s anybody’s barn. It’s almost on fire,
the sun’s so bright, like the body 
walking a country road, the orchard
sweet with fruit, the barn rising suddenly
on the horizon, a second sun, and night
nowhere to be seen — the whole idea
of dark so beautifully, hotly impossible.