Poetry to recall summer. It's filthy cold and wet outside, and the boiler is down in my apartment building. Guess how quick a repairman shows up on Sunday afternoon?
So, poetry that brings the heat, erotic or otherwise. Here's an old one of mine, to start. Help me get warm.
"And we flew"
Summer
seemed to last
all year
long that year.
Under a wide
and burning sky,
baked fields
hot to the touch,
lay bruised and broken
beneath sneaker heels
and bicycle wheels.
So high we flew.
So high that summer.
Launched from plywood ramps,
our Stingray bikes
grabbed the sky.
And we flew.
So high we thought
we'd never come down.
Until we did.
Crashing again
and tearing the skin
from knees and chins
in a fast tangle
of boy
and bike
and burning earth.
Only to launch once more
into the endless sky
of our last innocent summer.
So, poetry that brings the heat, erotic or otherwise. Here's an old one of mine, to start. Help me get warm.
"And we flew"
Summer
seemed to last
all year
long that year.
Under a wide
and burning sky,
baked fields
hot to the touch,
lay bruised and broken
beneath sneaker heels
and bicycle wheels.
So high we flew.
So high that summer.
Launched from plywood ramps,
our Stingray bikes
grabbed the sky.
And we flew.
So high we thought
we'd never come down.
Until we did.
Crashing again
and tearing the skin
from knees and chins
in a fast tangle
of boy
and bike
and burning earth.
Only to launch once more
into the endless sky
of our last innocent summer.