A trio of poems to remember summer
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    Much Was Said about Form

    by Angela Mears

    It was enough for me to be stretched out drunk on your bowlegged

    backyard trampoline, the one you erected with strips of duct tape

    ten summers ago this August.The air was wet and melted on the tongue

    like chocolate. The creaking tire swing kept our time. Then you said

    “The old poetics are dead,

    it’s not enough to mean what you mean

    anymore,” etc. etc.

    We were lying beneath the arbors of your hunch-backed oak tree,

    the one the municipality forbade you cut down because it’s, what,

    thousands and thousands of years old. Splatters of mottled orange

    sunlight shot through the branches, branding foreign shapes in our eyes.

    Not wanting to change the subject too obviously I told you a poet’s not

    worth reading if he doesn’t write about love, at least some of the time.

    Everywhere I looked I saw the afterimage of the sun.Fuzzy imagined

    green light shut out the yellow and red of a spectacular sunset.

    I let you read me that Frank O’Hara poem about taking shits on Sundays.

    The sun was almost down by now.Darkness brought a change to the near-

    Autumn air.Frenzied squirrels fussing in the branches torpedoed

    our gathering with acorn hand-grenades.

    I should not have brought up Love.

    Sticky Summer Heat

    by Olivia Wainhouse

    Sticky summer heat

    Chasing perspiration down my flushed cheeks.

    Wrestling hopelessly with comforters

    Covers off–exposed and vulnerable,

    Covers on–trapped bad thoughts,

    Pervasive loneliness

    of those endless summer nights,

    Like a flipbook turned

    by restless fingertips,

    blending images together

    to form motion

    in a motionless night.

    Summer day chases summer day

    Like naïve fawns by a bustling highway

    Daunting night

    and dangling Chinese lanterns

    faintly glistening in the distance

    gently illuminating the unexpected.

    Sticky summer heat

    Forming pools of unrealized revelations

    Dripping into the subconscious

    and flirting with the restless.

    Sticky summer heat

    Chasing perspiration down my flushed cheeks,

    Soft breathing interrupted by imminent sighs

    of unquenchable frustration

    Hushed by the mysterious summer of youth.

    And sticky summer heat

    Slumber hiding in the sheets

    with the sun and the sensible,

    Leaving questions unanswered

    and a thick blanket of heat

    Slowly suffocating its victim.

    A Summer Haiku

    By Micah Shapiro

    Warm afternoons breathe

    life into summer’s endless

    mantra: “Go Cubs go.”

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