June 8.1

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Opened all the windows
but the house still smells
like sleep.

Outside, some
children communicate
through primal screaming,
a clash of sticks and
gratings.

Out for the summer,
what do they care about
the intrinsic sadness
of Sunday morning,
that there’s still some time yet

never meaning what it
means to mean: for them
meaning nothing, with age
meaning regret.

 

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