“Late Summer” – a poem


wraps my face in a warm cloth

opens my pores and lets the air beneath my skin.

it sends the coded cries of cicadas

burrowing into my brain

making me dream of rich late summer evenings

where fireflies dance in splendor.

summer, where all things are gilded

in the early evenings,

where decrepit, long-lost homes are

splendid mansions and rusted chain-link fences

are antique silver lace

a photographic dream.



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