They climbed the sandstone cliffs before boarding jets
bound for the Far East   young men  cigarettes dangling from cocky lips
grease monkeys   kids working on their hitched up Chevies

they took off in the early morning or at dusk
with cans of spray paint and on those rocky outcroppings they wrote their
initials
(and sometimes those girls they loved or screwed)

and sometimes the moon reflected their handiwork
and sometimes the sun looked down like a good father

the lake was beneath them like an open eye
like a trampoline they could fall into

and sometimes these boys high on weed or speed or just plain drunk
would lose their grip and tumble down
where rough stones poked out like arguments
(ones they had with dad or mom about some silly thing
like feeding the dog or weeding the lawn)

and sometimes a boy would fall bruised, scraped
and bloodied, his chest an open canvas, the can of paint
shooting its wad before him

and often a boy of the sixties would die like this
reaching up as if to heaven
that crazy stare in his eyes   as if believing himself   infallible

and maybe if you look up now, you can see the names
of boys who may have or may not have   come back

partial names faded identities   and girls whose images
whirled like stars

then as suddenly   diminished