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Memories

I don’t blame trees for blanketing
the grass
in brown memories of greener
months
nor the sun for plunging out
of view
while the clock still has hours left
to roll.

I’ve noticed that time moves at its
own pace
& memories come in different
colors
some at pleasant octaves we sing
along with
others hum so softly we don’t
notice them.

My earliest memories of you feel new
like yesterday
and worn in like a hundred years
of polish
dazzling as they hang from a pedestal
of stars
outshining even my brightest
wishes.

Scenes of home

I see her face familiar
the smell of butter warming
in a pan before
grilled cheese sandwiches

houndstooth pattern
transcribed from the sofa
to my cheek
on a lazy Saturday afternoon

James Taylor slowly pouring
from the speakers
like hot water in a mug
of Mom’s instant coffee

Her face double-exposed
over older memories
scenes of home flashing
from her propulsive influence

purifying moments woefully absent
of that face — the second place
I consider home
has always been there.

A statue

She lingers at the door, silent except
for the half smile singed on her lips

like a historical marker trying to freeze
a moment in time. We’re older but I swear

she hasn’t aged a day since this morning —
those green eyes still coyly tow me in

and I’m a wreck for her. I could build
a monument to this moment, one of many

that holds a place at the center of me —
cemented to last well beyond my life.

She lingers at the door, but calls me home.

Fragrant fragments

I borrow moments from your future
because the past
smells old

sneakers left in the rain while you slept
inside. Slept and slept
until

what has become of you
comes nearer to what has become of me
awake for the first time. I can remember

looking forward
a lighthouse on the beach drawing circles
fussy hermit crabs finding new homes

the smell of salty sea air
seemed far away though it waved to me
I shouldn’t speak of nose hairs

something dances inside me
aromas of tomorrow. Inside now

today’s heartbeat thumps
this banging

growing louder as we get closer
bang bang

stealing from tomorrow only enlarges
the craving

pounding right now
now you’ve become my very blood

the oxygen I pull in my nose

breezy with age

banging

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About Me

Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives, writes, and watches old episodes of Doctor Who. He’s only recently published his first collection of poems: Paint the Living, Plant the Dead. His poems have appeared in numerous publications including Galway Review, Vita Brevis Press, Olive Skin, Spillwords, and others.

His debut novel, The Alien in the Backseat, is available on Amazon.

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