by Christina Veladota Liana S The one Eagle Scout I knew dropped acid every weekend, read Ferlinghetti, saw poetry in the poverty of an empty hand. Every poem was an eon in the making. He asked for sex in the heat of his almost sorry. We woke in a field inside a world closing its every eye. I thought the chuff & cry were mine, but they were the distant train splicing my breath into fragments. Our idiom was the dawn’s shattering glass. The railroad tracks stretched like a zipp