The heart has its seasons. On this third of summer let us, you and I, lay bare our secret pains to this season's gods. Let us, too, burn incense; re-awaken passions now etherized by time. But eyes must only look; and elbows just brush; and lips mumble dissonances. Be it so. For eyes must only look; and elbows just brush; and lips mumble dissonances. So come the rains to snuff our incense; balm this pain; turn cold this want; let us offer a libation to a third of summer slowly shaping other season come full circle only the gods understand.
*Published on The National Library of Poetry - Dance on the Horizon 1994 ©
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