Summer Cycle

Poetry by Michael Trocchia
Issue 41 • July 2016 • Staunton

He adds less and less:
   haiku lines in late July—
a crab clung to tongue.


He makes a month of moth-
   wings, calls it summer’s new light—
each day drawn to us.


He undoes August,
   gives it July’s bursted heart,
legs of long dead June.


He drags the moon out.
   It looks nothing like August
nor the moon even.


There, in the woodshed,
   he holds what’s left of August:
the veins of summer.

Michael Trocchia is the author of The Fatherlands and Unfounded. He teaches philosophy at James Madison University and works in the library. He lives in Staunton.

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