2 January 2020

2 January 2020

In that summer the apples were too sweet.
Too fragrant, the juices were. As they slipped
in and amongst your knuckles and burst
jubilant from the notches between your teeth.
Toothy wet mouth inviting men and bees alike.

In that summer you were never lonely. You drifted
in time, a tireless cottonwood seed.
Flirting with ganglia and the idea of flowers.
A Godlike hay-fever it was. With the sweat
beading little ants on your breast
and the moths to lick you clean amongst
the make talk and petty proverb.

I'm surprised to have known you that summer.
My surprise; like slipping under a logjam on The Hudson.
Or like the way an alligator makes its kill. Surrounded
by claws that dig and with each rotation those little specks
of dirty airborne water fill your throat as you inhale.

Maybe for the last time
it often feels like the last time.

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