
In two days, it will be July.
Blue, red, orange, yellow
the light, the heat, the color;
Summer holding us around the waist.
Grilled corns, peas frozen,
petals drying on the floor,
limes enshrine my threshold.
Summers, they say, evaporates your grief,
Summers, they say,
unbuckles the purpose from your ankles.
So you are free, like a dead-skin.
Untethered, unaccountable for any growth.
And you dance in the wind
in a moon-lit, sunset sky.
You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow.