the August

the August sat on the side of the locust road
and drew with a stick shorter days in the air, drew
nights cooler on the land you couldn’t keep
a shed the trees the hollows a house
all unshaven and evangelical and the August
drew in the grit your hard to utter rage—

anything less than hatred was deception

—so you loaded your weapon with vows
and the August was proud ’til September

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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