Summer Breeze

Like the tornado barreling

through Dallas last month,

you hit close to home;

when you leave,

you burn the town,

Nagasaki. Our shadows

glow, there in

your old place, radioactive

on the lamppost.

Too much space eaten

in the afternoon gloam,

my teeth clinch

gray as your hair.

Kiss slightly the breath,

a small dent left

in your yellowed pillow.

Slide your hand across

the remembering of

her wild hair.

She smells of lilacs

and lead.

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