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Every Summer
A poem by Douglas Caraballo
I walk around missing every summer,
Every year.
Drunk Summers, Sober Summers.
When the world stopped,
and the heat and the house,
equaled each other in weight.
I think a lot.
The pacing brain remembers some random corner
of Maine, or Mexico. Some broken glass
against the yellow. red. pink, of old town walls.
Nights when my heart would swell over
with the sheer notion of living.
Legs shaking in the surrender
of a broken AC.
Nobody remembers the places
you shared with yourself,
in all your gods —
recording the haze of night,
and the barely visible vibrations
of street lamps.
I have reigned in my own being,
shaped into a pair of four walls.
Imposing the master upon the child,
in all his willful arrogance. But he remembers,
Remembers the cribs shadows laying length wise
across the floor.
I remember every summer.
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