Instead of Withering, a poem

The air turns toothy and

gnaws memories back to

plasticity like two-day-old gum.

The past stretches and bends

and lacks the flavor of then.

It absorbs ambient tastes.

Feeds on dying leaves

and burning wood.

Instead of withering,

I lose 30 years

in a train whistle

blasting through

porous trees.

I am dying of youth.

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