my memory of it has grown over itself

the vines of ten ye—well, I won’t put an age on it

it’s really set in, though, the flora, take my word for it

since that memory of you was first born in my life

and I welcome its new obscurity

that sense of silence, of monsters finally at rest in the woods

of violence held behind the thinnest of pale curtains

of a family of flies landing on one of my many panting breaths

making a home

 

but I fear the apples

rotten apples, like dreams, rolling off the vines of my memory

still alive regardless of time

the apples I can’t help but pick up

and half-eat when I’m drunk

under a harvest moon

listening to a chorus of crickets like violins

outside my home

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