June 17

comments 4
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Everything is bolting
in the heat, sending up

last gasps, small
anxious leaves,

scattered and flowering,
even the greens

in the shadiest bed
giving in to reflex–

panic, unbecoming,
I sit in late morning’s

near silence– a button
strikes in the washing

machine, the dog
is gnashing her fur

with her teeth, a jet
passes low–

tail,
contrail,

it’s motion that gives
us all away–

Unmoved, I eat
a mealy peach.

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4 Comments

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