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September, closet raider

by Elizabeth Dwyer

  • You hold my next-to-nothings hostage.
  • Cut off jeans and cotton tees
  • in their black body bags
  • designed for leaves.
  • August sifts into your incense. It
  • disappears in smoke,
  • the autumn oak,
  • the burning scent in my ears.
  • Shaded beneath a veil of cloud,
  • the sun, suitcase packed
  • dims his winter plans aloud,
  • the tropics, perhaps.
  • Leaves of hot yellow lie
  • still drunk on June’s kiss
  • under foot of passers-by
  • the crisp remnants of dying stars.
  • Dear runaway Summer,
  • Forgive me if I blinked too fast,
  • if I hugged you too tight,
  • if I drank you too fast.
  • Each year
  • I cling to you-
  • Seven, in an overstuffed moving van
  • face pressed against the rear window.


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