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In the Almost Summer of a Humid Evening

Noticing the absence of a lilac breeze

we spread our bellies over cool earth

mourn the dandelions’ death

their white ash clings against the barn

your duck takes lazy drags of slender weed

like a woman’s cigarette.

Onto our backs

I weave you a necklace of clover

while you tell me stories

while you reminisce your short life

of summers past

as if I wouldn’t remember, as if I weren’t there

as if I gave you away at birth.

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