The Rape of Summer

We rape summer, then wonder why she bleeds into winter (skipping fall completely). We were hungover through her serial morning glories, ignored the sun as if it were a filthy yellow ball in a childless gutter. We walked by her streams of Indian paintbrush and violets). While we trapped ourselves in sunscreen, strip malls, and bad poetry. We raped summer, left it crying at the church steps. Diamond and lace put to a spinster blaze a pair of blue blanks. Staring at the ripeness of our selfishness. Now we face the fangs of winter broken flowers and dead streams. All the while thinking about the time, we raped summer completely.