youthward

I digress in suggesting
you make up the best of me,

having written a
thousand poems about
broken things,

how they
can’t be redeemed by
half the husk and
no beating
center.

Just want to be like
the birds,
flying ever youthward,
as you herd me toward
the finer points of
growing up.

I’m not ready to give up but this feeling in my gut is grieving hunger. I’m not ready to shut the door on us but I’m not getting any younger.

Nostalgia’s sweet but
only lasts one summer,
just past August’s dying days
and there
I go, like
the birds again,

the place I most belong, most
worthy of escape.

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