Tagged: southern

in the middle of

when the sun sets at

when the sun sets at
four thirty-seven in the
afternoon, there is

no escaping the temperature
of loss, longing for the south
.
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y

leaning in ever

leaning in ever
so slightly over the pool
of cicada songs,

a ripple in the reflection,
an asynchronization
.
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when the forecast hits

when the forecast hits
possibly snow,
you and i always
return to the Great Blizzard
of Ninety-Three
, how
we made do with what we had –
two digging shovels with the
pointed ends, some southern
summer gardening
gloves, and
sinks and tubs stopped
up with hot water
for the tender
soaking in between
.
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y

at the end of the

at the end of the
day, no one longs
for the city
the way they
thirst for those
southern summer
nights, lakeside,
sun all at once
inches and
tens of thousands
of kilometers away
from setting, two
systems of
measurements,
hand in hand,
two paces
from falling
.
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we are chiseled from

we are chiseled from
those southern
summers – hot
discipline captured
by a lone breeze
of freedom, swept
away from admonishing
looks, my brother
and i, our sun-darkened
skins parting the
symphonic waters
in the clubhouse
pool, a luxurious
drowning under
magnolia
branches –
that silver lining
.
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y

in this part of the

in this part of the
country, the sun
unfurls
a heated
wet blanket, an
oshibori of sorts,
as a gesture of
summer’s arrival.
there is, however,
little courtesy
involved, and
the only thing
that feels
wrung are our
withering bodies
.
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