August

by Vanessa Saunders

The light from the shades

quivers on the desk, from the sun.

The low moan

of an unidentified human, three flights

downwards. A gust

of heat rolls through the slats; a pair of eyes

blink inside the dusk, crossing the room

like a passing thought,

breaking open solid spaces.

The itch, the itch.

The wandering eye; a cocktail

of lust and unlust; love for one

and love for everyone.

‘My emotions are not

infinite.’ — the feeling breaks up.

Somebody swallows.

A cough; somebody cries out

from the window of a passing truck.

A collar is pulled, a button popped

outward from a sleeved finger; the light catches

the ring.

You rolled up your sleeve.

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1 Comment

Filed under Issue 7, Poetry

One response to “August

  1. Theresa

    Can feel the languid heat.

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