When the sun’s florid hand blots
wrought iron curls in calligraphic shadow
on the net mesh of a window screen,
and its felting of highlit white dust flings out
depthy fields frozen in a snowglobe
moment resisting imperial summer,
time pockets to accommodate this
unseasonable dream:
How I would skate in that
frictionless immunity from
seasons’ melt of perfect surfaces.
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