Older

He milks the weeds of his home-town
and pours the bitter broth in a ceramic bowl,
drop by drop
, like harvesting syrup,
that slow serenade of nearly-not-a-liquid,
from the forests that spring up out of composting teddybears
and trendy teen magazines ’bout music.

His mind is a confetti of neon wristbands–
concerts, clubs, conventions–and of handstamps–
fairgrounds, flea markets, other places faraway
and out of mind, though in mind’s orbit.

The bildungsromance makes us swoon
as we remember, once, the highest branch
was too low. Two towns over, once,
was interstellar. We are all blood
in his veins. Once,
we were children
unafraid.

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