Summer

Ping me cyclically that I might

sew heresy into the ahem of your

incursion coat. Gloat you say,

feathering playthings fall to the side.

Walk walk walk post-button press,

to hatch the white signal on black

luring me forward to freehand

nominal porch swing enabling

the cursive fraught template of lard

for baking, forsaking all else.

Pencil sketched before clobbering 

the behest of Trappist bards self flung

into tinnitus where migraines self-

impeach as winter cloys relentless sub-

traction of unwanted flecks of burning 

leaves followed by frothy snow to come.