1A.

 

We neglected

grandma’s broken ski boots

(stories, lessons, tongues)

in packing box mountains.

 

1B.

 

I love violin eyes—

      sing black coffee tears

 

1C.

 

splash on brick blocks, stacked

like fresh loaves with doors,

on K streets, all finished

with that fog veneer.

 

2A.

 

Song-scraps flavored with salt

waft through my window

(like my neighbor’s borscht)

 

2B.

 

staccato

            strings breaking

snowflakes like tilled dirt.

 

2C.

 

Scar tissue stories

in a glass cage between red

velvet and spotlight.

 

3A.

 

much displaced memory:

scooted across café tables,

like so many cookie crumbs

no child would look at—

3B.

 

a decade behind me,

lazy graphite afternoons

turning math puzzles

 

3C.

 

shoeboxes, cracked binders

hastily forget why

       we can never go back—

 

4A.

 

Remember that time

we hid in the alley, because

they put worms down your shirt?

 

4B.

 

Or when with melted stars

down your cheek,

I would kiss that storm…

 

4C.

 

echo our old worlds

                               we can’t leave,

tea-stains in a coffee-mug

 

N. Keating Ave.

 

—and Sibyl opened my hand,

closed it

with a pinch too much sand

scratching my palms.

 

 

 

 

 

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