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Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Hot Season

summer is a coming-of-age story,
we grow from the buds that spring
from the waist of the world;
pruned by time and desire, branches stretching,
coming out, in turn a love letter,
an invocation, an epitaph to the season

arriving at its inevitable conclusion,
where every grave is an open question;
and every nostalgic dash between our years hides
how exceptionally beautiful life had been,
with the axis-shifting passion of summer
we always chase to reach; branches stretching

as tangled roots grow towards water:
its obscure object of desire, ungraspable hunger
indeterminate and already lost to you
at exactly the moment you rush so fervently
to hold it, dripping through the heated holes
of longing, as though the heat of Eros is a scorched arrow

shot through the friction of anticipation
and memory; curved in the bow of holding; we pull back
and always talk of losing paradise, but not often
of the paradise sighted -- of life in abandon
glazed with emotional and physical cravings
brazen with awakening, where life goes slack

suddenly and is one long summer afternoon;
where you are lying in a bathing suit
of fire searching for the obscurity of water;
and the heat makes you plead in your room, believing
the skin to be the cruellest thing alive,
where your thoughts rustle as though you're crawling

lying on shredded paper, cutting you
out of mind, out of soul, branches stretching
as your roots try to reach a source
as the summer steams your thirst;
where another's body is a lost city
your exploring heart has always been searching

for and just found: archaeology of the core
digging to find what is underneath the ground
and unsheathe it to the summer; its swarded steel
that cuts you in embarrassingly clichéd
romantic and animal ways to make you feel
like the very waters have parted

and where the only enemy of summer
is time and the staff of Moses burning out
its fire: the universal agent that buries the ancients
and the greatest cities; yet what is made history
can never be undone, or redone; the summer's serenade
can neither go back, or look the other way

or move forward past its end of day;
where lies our most challenging moment,
whether our cities become the text that merely
record the loss with scratches and dashes on graves,
where every one remains an open question;
of whether or not we wear each other out

to record our dream making in life
and its remembering, and even whether in its mourning
life is rebuilding summer for a new morning, and that
although we end, the moment remains endless
always bringing us back, reunited glorious
where the water is caught in flow by hand,

where life is written before the reader's eyes,
and our closing words echo our sighs:
phrases of elegy and of invitation, of the season
of summer and its axis-shifting passion,
where we were buds on branches that once stretched out
to a simultaneously endless and momentary cloudless sky.

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