Chicago Postcard, Midsummer
loud enough for me to hear it. Every
summer Chicago flairs the sky, burning
flags above the towers and shy houses,
smothering stars and declaring war.
If crystal were pure I'd look
damned, newborn Eve swaddled,
logging the Styx. Summer has me trapped.
Solstace, you can't coordinate fast enough.
Without weeds, the gardener's life runs amok.
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