summer packaged like uneven liquid in a purple milk carton,
how do i spew out my memories neatly in a uniform flow through a
perfectly carved cardboard spout?
i think years manifest themselves in the
endearing wrinkles on our knuckles, so full of grandfather laughter and
grandmother love, deep cut lines for
counting time.
aging like cheese, beautifully, it is warming to think that
each step we walked along these gray stone square paths,
each degree off of center which we swerved, each ray of sunlight that
awkwardly hit our faces as we tried to
make linguistic, audible sense of our
mashed potato growth trajectories,
was calculated so precisely.
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