Jared Pearce

Jaime’s Summer by Jared Pearce

Jaime’s Summer

by Jared Pearce

 

It should begin along the lines: sorrow,

red moon above naked maples, only a sole

lamp lit in the house;

 

gather like the late August rains,

like the heat in September, the folds

in the living room drapes;

 

slip away from touch, see

how the spiders lift themselves

into the earth, into infinity;

 

without her feeling the angel’s

wing brushing her feet it

should be felt; it should be

 

real as the locust, its singing

voice marked only by its silent,

worn-out self clinging to a tree;

 

long as a river, charged

as a river, as a chicken hawk

owning its powers

 

it should float, strike

in its ferocity

to tear into a hunger.



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