I
thought that you had said
in
August we would count
hazy
days of dusty sun
and
lazy afternoons would sidle
with Pimms and white wine spritzers
into
drowsy nights
but
here now is the lie
as
the wind rattles fence panels
between
their posts
and
rain beats
on
the incessant glass
and
the second blanket
thrown
off in May
now
lies across the bed
again
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