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In the dark gazebo,
a small bench.
The shades pulled
against the light,
the heat. Nearby,
a fountain.
Its water endlessly
cycled through
and through
until it begins
to evaporate.
By then, most of
the blooms
will have fallen.
Summer turns
sticky, scratchy.
People are
foul-mouthed,
bad tempered.
It lasts longer
than anyone
can count.
Forget the shaded
gazebo, that
octagonal house
of pleasure’s
shadows.
Forget the fountain.
Summer takes
it’s own pace.
The sky refuses you.
It will not
open up.

William Reichard on Fogged Clarity

William Reichard is the author of four collections of poetry, including Sin Eater (2010) and This Brightness (2007) from Mid-List Press. He lives and works in Saint Paul, MN.

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