If You’ve Forgotten Summer

Summer is delicate with the lace
of wings come home. It remembers
the page, the stanza, the line where
it left off. It doesn’t rest until it makes
over beaches, brews iced coffee

and writes several bestsellers. It’s the
water park, the roller coaster, the
sci-fi thriller. And it begins as limitless
brushstrokes of feathers returning.

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By the Light, I Make My Way

By the light of darkness, I move
across meadow sponges

to a realm of not yet, as he has
died, and I am left beneath a tree

saying, You are missed. I miss
you. We all miss you. You will be
missed. People notice you are
missing. The hardware misses
you. The mailman 
doesn’t yet
miss you.