Summer
Not a swirling
cold
Or a silent
night
But an open
window
Staring into
lemon light
And charcoal
beetle wings
Against the
cook-an-egg
Cement.
Not a bitter
white touch
Or
chattering bone
But an oven
in your car
Lying next
to the roaring
River that
threatens
To take you
away
And a heat
soaking
Through your
lace shirt
And into
your
Skin.
© Amanda Hall
