Summer [Poem]

It’s summertime, but not a summer in

San Francisco. Summer is the reset

Sprint in the making, but, without

Heat, it loses its temper. It becomes the fall

Of many blue, bounded, burdened, and

Excavated, depleted past but is

Relieved in the fashion of the city’s coolness.

I walk by the same sweatshirt from

The earlier year; it becomes nothing

But, a piece of fabric. Like the song,

Used to shatter, now does not stir

A drip. The piddling

Bits, question the origin, demand, the convincing.

To convince, I have to look at you in the eye.

To convince, I have to touch, the surface of the earth.

The unsettled, want to be assured.

Unnerved, I, want to be assured.

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