It’s finally summer and it never will be summer
No matter who visits
You fall asleep even with sore shoulders
And eyes           It’s September

There was a fox I think last night singing itself to death
It sounded like a broken washing machine
Being here is like having to work out every hour
Half asleep in the country of Ethan Allen

Was everyone in the Revolution a hero or a traitor
Or was there some dispensation
For those who chose not to leave the premises
Of self-preservation

Summer’s so small a bayonet couldn’t pierce it

Brian Clements |  > > > > >
Contents | Mudlark No. 49 (2013)