She’s like a long drive down Carson
when summer’s at its summit
and you get there without regret,
but you feel it slipping
like pearls of water through trembling fingers,
and she’s still there, hazy and real,
an arch across my eyelids,
straining towards tomorrow.
And the oasis of her smile
comes in waves like the sun
dancing with ghostlike glance
and simmering up from the black august asphalt
rising like revenants from the Mon
in ploys of light, to heat and coddle, then toy,
they tease of absence — her lips another day away.
The steam rises like cool hot mist,
soaks her soul, takes her in, and there, enveloped
I stretch further yet, peering passively
along some painted bridge,
along the periphery of her essence
she glances, I steal
the moment — fades and breaks,
splinters into rusted words of yesterday.
Yesterday! the very word perplexes
the passion of a passive mind,
unsettles the soul that had sought divinity
in a sliver of sunlight,
combed the unerringly diverse contours of the road
running circles round the West End,
all in the summer for a taste of her hair
to unhunger and appease the longing
that had long languished the psyche
O! for a sip of her being!
It is with forethought only
that she may be drunk fully,
her soul that rich, it speaks not
of spring, of becoming, but only of now.
I long for the orange of autumn — to be cooled by her aloofness,
but summer lingers, and now it must be.
It must be…my mind echoes these words,
empty and frail, she is here,
she lives in my soul,
only her and her white hot presence,
her summer…my spring
By: Don Fette and Emily Hanser