Youth, you once told me,is the only refuge of the young.It took me longer than you'vebeen alive to parse that. Andwhen I was done, I disagreed.There are refuges for the youngscattered throughout Finland,a few in Belgium, and at leastone in the Outer Hebrides. Buttravel, you replied, had neverbeen of interest to you.Homebody. I looked for the darkpieces of alleys in whichto kiss you and instead foundendless sunlight, luminousarrows shot from the bowsof a thousand equine archers,reflected from rust, from steel,from the grey shafts of your eyes. ____Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Survision, Loud Zoo, and Ghostlight, among others.