Late May

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LATE MAY


Days flash and fall like sprinkler 

drops, pop like soap bubbles


on the sun-warmed hood of a car. 

Come morning dead bodies


will line the bottom of a jar—still,

who wants to be the one


to let the lightning out?

Not so much a question


as a shout: sparrow cloud

graduating over the pine copse,


tell me it's possible to be here

before we're left grasping


at the glimmer of what's

already flickering in further fields.


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