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Crab Apples
6:41 pm / Tuesday, Feb. 27, 2007


A stack of old postcards
I send them to you with no return address
You never return my letters—
My advances.
I stamp envelopes
Address them to myself.
I write sonnets that they would linger
Ring in my ears.

Words— you never abuse them
You hardly use them
We must be out of reach
Out of touch
No.
We’ve never.

Where did the time go?
From the first time we met
We’ve become lazy as our summers
Blankets in the park
I sleep left
You sleep all afternoon.
But I’m on a pea, or a pin
Anxious as the gin on your breath— the front door
We are the summer
Hot and weighty on my shoulders
You always see me brighter
Moments before the
Sun turns red
The flash of automatic headlights
Turn on—
dusk and driving home.

You are my part time jobs
The soggy grass stuck to my high-tops
The child’s finger attached to my belt loop
We cling like crab apples—
Falling at the end of our months—
Too ripe.

Photographs of memories,
I paste them to the backs of old postcards.
Return to sender.
Return to summer.
Postage stamps could form us again
Perhaps we won’t rot this year.

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