Hot Summers, Killed


United States
42° 57' 1.1304" N, 83° 49' 33.9168" W

The songs we heard under the wooden porch
Are still carried in my ears – ringing something awful.
Sighing anger is dead when we’re away and the
Great, wet blue is hanging above – judging

Young and flat – we gently slipped into it
And that awful world brightly singed us to a crisp
As well as screamed at our small blackness and
The futile bites we flung back did not care – stopped

When the rain loves to bury old demons how
Can you and I weather through the dampness?
If you return, I trust you to have those homespun,
Childish songs on your lips – open and intact


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