After Summer

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The burnt breeze has come
too early,
skewing in through the wide
shock of a patio door.

I sit on the thin, stained carpet
and make myself breathe
the canned-heat shimmer
of nobody’s yard

trembling up
from a haze of brambles and bonfires,
brown weeds
and tangles of parsley-green
keeping their wet distance,

blank wigs of smoke
unravelling
to ribbons

slyly fugging
these rooms of citrus
and gin–

exhaling around me,
mimicking breath.

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