When I was a child

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When I was a child,
We didn't care, us children,
About anything. Thinness
Of reality was our life, even,
At that odd age, the oddest
Of ages, our immediate
Goal. Ah, but the little love eras,
Containing themselves
I had for a girl at a Christmas party
In San Francisco: the Victorian
Houses on Steiner Street,
A white stairwell, up to her room,
At thirteen, we were not joking.
The house and the adults played Bach and Haydn
We cavorted upstairs, I felt she was above
My station, and the glowing ardor in my chest
And arms and shoulders, guts and groin,
Was that much (you count) more intensive.
She was lovely, and with the world.
When I was a child, these things, don't you know,
Across from the Alamo
Park on Christmas Eve,
And she.