by Ag Synclair
On those long, loping, summer afternoons
when the air has turned a thick, milky, mess
when breathing suddenly becomes a negative proposition
I stop my breathing so I can die for a few moments.
While dead
I promise not to write between our lines
I won't be dead long enough to write
just long enough to live
just long enough
for one last startling act of contrition
I can't be resurrected like some faux Jesus
but I can always rise to the occasion
then I'm reminded of France, circa 1955
and your little brown dress.
The peaceniks up north wave signs
"Make Love, Not War"
yet we all fight and die
in wars fought on mottled streets
where some fool once said
no heart beats alone.
Why do the leaves turn their backs on us
just before it rains
faster, faster
we don't know what it means to be slow
your sex wraps around me
like a swirling backbeat
rewind, play
repeat.
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