Foul-Mouthed and Flustered

Then, in the breeze, the sun bright

and her face lithe, flaxen hair sway,

moments bricking and setting up

the last, time after time, eventful

summer Sundays, wasting away in

delight, fires on the porch, her

mouth tastes like wine, breaches

no test, with reckless paramours

like us, shanking the ellipses, stun

and awe, but the fries burnt, and

it went too far, nothing sacred will

stay, and everything that rises

always converges, I trust her sage

wisdom on this, the spot on the sun

is where I die, and it dies with me,

like that time, and this one, and

that one, and you, and this; all of it.


~ by Shawn M. Young on April 20, 2017.

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