I don’t want them to know summer to be seduced by a yard technicolor to make space between ears and shoulders to learn the hum of dusk in July I don’t want to show them the freedom of night clothes on dew-soaked grass— wet feet at breakfast curtains blowing in the midnight zephyr Because the fall is too far and most of the time it is like this The bad man is blowing a perilous storm grey skies come with a clutching chill and we don’t know how long until the sun returns or if she’ll ever shine the same Down a burning street, swing between our hands, sing high-chinned, this life is sweet and play with the ashes like you do with sand. I don’t want them to know this not yet