To be seamless
is not a goal. I’ve got to see
how you stitched together memories
and faces and the name plates
stuck in the dirt next to those blue
flowers. Got to taste

the same kind of apple you would bite
into when we met over the lunch

period. Would dream
of the scent you gave off
when you brushed against me
after school. Top of the ninth
and your mood would be riding on that boy
on the mound—mine affixed
to you by some kind of metal
pins and rawhide twine.