Incipient Decline
That sun is all summer. No denying it yet the wind
carries a chill that suggests reprieve is on its way
soothing shoulder blade burns like a mother cooing
I’m sorry, I’m sorry—you just made me so mad
coaxing you into trusting seasons—trusting the heat
will come around in time. Existing as if
there’s no point in seeking shade when the sun
seems so determined. You’ve never been the sort
to obstruct the natural course of things. You let nature
beat you, like it chose you. Can’t you remember?
That bright cigarette end will burn anyone near it
only as long as there is anyone near it to burn.
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