WASN’T IT SUMMER?
WASN’T IT SUMMER?
WASN’T IT SUMMER?
WASN’T IT SUMMER?

Say, wasn’t it summer?
it must have been the wind;
blame me, place me in sunrays,
We will die, we knew that
I’ve buried myself, I used
to bury me and my
friends. So many summers ago—
fifteen to be exact—
our heads sticking out we were
winter’s blanketed children,
but it was the middle of summer
when we placed rocks in broken
plastic mugs to pull water
to clean our faces
and clean the dogs
who chased us to the ends
of the earth. We
were rebels, we never
believed
summers meant nothing,
that the ends meant nothing.
We washed and washed and
washed the red away
from our faces, we washed
with the red in the water.
There was a storm
brewing, a red storm;
it told us to head back,
all the animals and the plants
wave us goodbye, and head back
but I have to stick behind,
the world is evergreen, and
I am outside
for just a bit.
Something is crying, someone
knows we’ll be leaving soon
and soon, everything is
awash, the red collapses
everything kisses everything
and a cold smell fills the rest.