In the stricken throes of an expectancy
where exits open up along with ecstasy –
the rumbling imminence of ends
when summer’s swelling sun suspends
all motion in a glowing splurge of heat –
slow dance where nobody can find the beat:
it’s harrowing to see just how extreme
the least sensation can become: a dream
made sweating flesh whose senses reel:
wherein each fiber can be made to feel.
How can this blasted blessing not survive?
Late August comes excessively alive.
.
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