summerlove
Mark DeCarteret

what is left of the season
fumbles under her shirt
having seen most the stars
   back into space

seems that here where the heart
rests amidst its own lies
the eyes will have never found
   their own place:

so he will take leave by pen
where art tomorrow’s cameos
thy buttery thighs?

w/a scarab’s cramped script

but once again she won’t answer
he now forever on whose back
   she has flipped him
the words barely sounded
never mind even lipped

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