Thursday, August 16, 2012

The Heart of Summer - Poem

Well known August
Always begotten
The sign: the dry mat of clover
The signal: a shag of brunet grass
As scorched as the nape of my neck

This is the realization of a dream
That one day, the grass will die
That one day, we will weave it into mats
That one day, we will ask
“What else is left?”

August writes its poem:
A woman must leave something behind
A man must justify his rage
The turn of August brings this down
This passing, this burnt redemption
Of all that fades away

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