This year the city fenced
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with spring, in slender darting thrusts
of rapiered sun.
And each fendente pierced the hearts
of clouds which rose like dragonsí teeth
to bleed their fierce impassioned deaths;
to pillage tulips from their beds
and ruin lilacs barely yet in bloom.
Now though, a tardy summerís come
to sprawl through our steaming streets
like a thick-thighed whore.
Too heavy, brief and loudly sung
for tact or lilac perfume,
she booms in the trash cans, purrs prostrate
down the heaving sweat-wet sidewalks.
Greases a sunset butter-thick
across my wilting brow
and turns white shirts to sodden rags
like meek surrender flags.
She was all the cold-long a mere myth
but she's tithing vengeance now
for my pallid disbelief
in winterís passing.
She's daring me with lilac eyes
and glowing thighs
So I close my eyes to hear
in my mindís hot ear, the swirling sighing
of a silenced snowblind city.
Of laden branches shifting slump
and chilblained childrens' muffled shuffle,
booted, belted, crystal-melted,
icy-specked of hair and moist of nose.
And the slick shush-tick of chains on unplowed roads.
But my fesh no more believes in this
than December did
in the mucoid melt of August.
So Iíll lie at the seasonís sun-struck feet
or languish, limp and ravished, in her sea
til winterís warriors return
to slay this summerís indolence
and turn tideís tables on her tyranny.