Where is it... my summer-lush; with drippy overgrowth, sloppy,
hanging, weedy trees, heavy hot branches and the like?
I want a heat that will suppress my lungs,
keeps me intoxicated to dream of an autumnal brush.
Oh brother of mine, long lost you are,
we grew up so fast.
Never ready to fight out our will
waining the edges of color technology
and steadfast friendships.
Exaggerated pollen in forcefields of glue,
stick to my tongue as if I were new.