We went out
into the school yard together, me and the boy
whose name and face 

I don't remember. We were testing the range 
of the human voice: 
he had to shout for all he was worth, 

I had to raise an arm
from across the divide to signal back 
that the sound had carried. 

He called from over the park—I lifted an arm. 
Out of bounds, 
he yelled from the end of the road, 

from the foot of the hill,
from beyond the look-out post of Fretwell's Farm—
I lifted an arm. 

He left town, went to be twenty years dead 
with a gunshot hole
in the roof of his mouth, in Western Australia. 

Boy with the name and face I don't remember, 
you can stop shouting now, I can still hear you.