frost on the frozen windowsill
slowly unravels the horizon
into ladders. in the cold

i dream of us in july,
world, a soft boiled yolk,

two butterflies circling into sky,
haze so thick you can see it
heavy over the park.

i want to know
small things:

how you sigh in the morning,
your favorite shade of green,
the scent of your shampoo.

lounging, the lampshade
in the liquid sunlight –
take, tempt, tenderly, thoughtfully –

summer is the season of indulgence
as the cup runneth over,

rain clouds approach
in soft footfalls trees recognize,
every moment another held breath.

while the world rustles,
cicadas sing through the showers
their sad sweet summer songs.

now the world remains gray,
and the wind blows again
against the frosty windows,

but one day the shadow
of a squirrel on a telephone wire
will cross with us
the yellow lines of the street
rabid with desire.

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