Suzanne Dean
pavement
chunks
infested with
moon-shimmers
from
busted-bottle
weeds
rotting
armchairs
filter
rooted air
in
the empty-always lot
the
dull lamppost
deadens
this
bleak
line of vision
taunting my
summer-time
frame of mind
on the most frigid of eves
boundless blue objectives
can’t
shake this
fevered-head full of horizons
time
schedules
turning
head,
ever-loose strands of hair
beat against lashes
purse
lips blush
eyes
close slightly tighter
as
I cross the lot
corners
revolved
stairs pounded
to a light
under
a door