Lucas Hunt


Summer is a madness, a fever, a response
to the question, why do things end?
From the heavy heat of prolonged days
comes ambiance, vines, forever 
twisting in rarest air. Something
radiant shimmers on the street, 
atop wave, in flashing lights.

Through sprinklers, ducks and dogs
pace their square of yard,
immune to the trappings of restaurant,
happy without traffic that pushes
people to strangle the wheel,
nice cartoons of evening
with fancy crowds that fade away;

  shadows on the fence, 
  flowers in the window, 
  I watch how she walks
  in the dim street light.

Phantom of the hour in heels,
allure on the pavement,
car doors swallowed her whole
and through the crucial empty spot
I see sunflowers and white carnations
in assorted vases on a long shelf,
the flower shop closed with its lights on.

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