a light is kept,
pressure cooked:
a sliver or
an edge of violence
uncorked,
syllables bubble:
a festive brew
of tired feelings,
true, sharp, but drunk
like the bees savoring
hot
fermented apples from
swollen ground
this is summer:
an effigy of recalled births,
songs lodged in dizzy cells
we coax out something positive
and as it swerves, it stings whomever is nearest
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