Wastrel Summer
The cloying sangria
of freesias
invades the screen.
Amber bees whine
in wastrel air
like breezeless fans.
My shirt
is porcelain skin.
I dangle one metronome leg
off the arm
of a wicker chair
on the porch
as icebox rivulets
trickle down my sides.
In a far corner
dead flowers
curl
in a glass vase.
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