karen wheatcroft
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that summer

 

 

that  summer    you tell me     you want  to grow old

     

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

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on the     hard  shoulder   to pick shattered   glass

      

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

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

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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,

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

  

the  bourganvillias fist. at    night  I envy you  her  mouth