I think of the lawn, the grass I had
to cut by the mouthfuls, sink into
something other than summer, the flesh
of work, beer bottles piling in the margins
of the yard. I’d take my gloves off– hungover
July– to pick up last night’s blurry harmonicas.
Oh, I’d sing the songs through my teeth.
I lapped at youth forever cranking the tracks
from Myth, the blue days buzzing
by. Granny apples were rotting
in the yard beneath my nose. Even then
I told myself I can’t stay here forever.
(originally published in frak\ture, Spring 2020)