violent apple

every year at about this time when the Indian summers pop up like bottles of golden dawn

and i find myself out driving somewhere, I'm almost paralyzed with nostalgia

for a glimpse of something lost back in 5th street, or Astoria, Miami, green lawns and pools, bikes and lake swimming holocausts

gone lost forgotten evenings sitting on car hoods, talking to someone who glowed in the dark

a place i could never visit again~ a place and time~ a person, some magical walk in the woods with strangers

holding walnuts in sweating hands~ up trails created by beavers, sitting on mossy rocks under a sky so blue the ocean wavers above our heads

driving down country roads in October, eating applesauce doughnuts and pie, with coffee spilled on bench seats~ before the invention of cup holders, burning hands and thrift shop new cloths

new hats on our head and sunglasses with a back seat full of toys, from broken fingers memories

always some tragic drifting longing for the days i can't even remember anymore

yesterday, listening to radio, steering a wheel, driving passed trees, against black top, i felt as though someone was really pulling my heart out

and the only thing holding the veins and arteries in place was a thin fickle. . . hope

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