that summer



that  summer    you tell me     you want  to grow old


with  Delphine.    i don’t stop the car  or leave you

on the     hard  shoulder   to pick shattered   glass


from melting pitch or your slinged,still-fractured arm.

ijust drive & drive, point  our easy wheels  in &  out

of measured gaps, avoid the rough white lines that vibrate,


shudder, accuse.   that summer,  Nice  is so fucking  hot


we only get it in strips; through locked persiennes,razor-angled,

slit. mosquito-sleep injects its  slow narcotic weight.  at night


the  bourganvillias fist. at    night  I envy you  her  mouth 


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500 Terry Francois St. San Francisco, CA 94158

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