There comes a time when all our edens
sink into the ache of ancestry
and the secret tunnels of moss
that embroid our childhood
are eroded by the dead
The taverns, the bedrooms,
the smell of spit and hugs:
A once conjoined twin
speaking the thud of phantom memories.
None of the photos caught his laugh
Half her stories I ignored
Their tiny leaves spread through my dreams
And fruit like unexpected apples in my morning breath
It's hard not to feel small in these humming orchards
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