Pale Seasons Repeating
october ushers shyness in under
the moon.
before mid may comes to be
apocalyptic in assumption, form
and being, i beg
the jagged breath each
season to change.
none of them do.
the lake reminds me of june
(the preliminary thought to summer)
and i almost smile hopefully,
expecting the foam to curl
upon the shore and smile back.
that white soap
prays to me,
Comply.
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