VIII

In the lungs of the girl,
the summer is a grove of shadow,
a song that is a bird,
a distance of guitars,
and the cicada’s trembling silence.
In the lungs of the girl,
the summer is a barb of joy,
a collapse of leaves in the burning roots,
love in the dark feet of children,
and translucent carp
streaming from the sun’s despair.
In the lung of the summer,
the girl is a voice of embers
dancing over my closed eyes.

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