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.
We DID It 