When was
The last summer
I can recall
A fountain
Hoped for
Not to drink
But all
Aflourish
Vivid blue
And red
Bleed into
This key
Misplace
Picked up sticks
Clattered
Like my arms
To ground
No such thing
As chores
I would smell
The chamomile
And its kin
Crushed against
My other cheek
Before that field
Had gone
Too grave
This last
Burns my eyes
Dried of clarity
As the stubble
Sticks my socks
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2014
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