You are a source of words for me, caged and bittersweet.
I picture green hair long under bandannas, free range grass
and dirt on hairy hippie feet.
I thumb through my vinyl and I think of you.
and, through you, the summer of 95 calls to me
playing out like home movies full of grain and static.
Still frames of bright blue water over your summertime skin.
I see no wrinkles, only you
and dusty records in the attic
I see no wrinkles, only grooves
for me to play over with fingersyoung and curious.