He dived in the rocks...

I was running toward home.

The        trail's end was wet;      leaves smelled

                                                                like          book pages   and tea.

He dived into the rocks.

I swear:      those along the sidewalk,

                     poured into           a    cored      square.

Before I       could even                cross

onto the        breathy-wet   asphalt,

he vaulted    over     down-steps,

                      sprung the    hand rail,

      pond-hopped    the sidewalk,    and –

                                            landing        with buckshot flail –

                 began wildly                       imagining into

                                                       the rocks (not on top of, but into;

                                          burrowed through).

And he was

so completely there –    talking to or

                  saying what I       wouldn't dare to

                            assume – that I barely

          won over his eye contact:

at arm's reach,
  out  of
view.