One, two, three leaves sink in the sun.

The bituminous pitch turns liquid.

The path undone runs towards the school 

I hear the Miss Teacher translating

English to Northern East, to the city

seeking a leeway in the narrow shadow

beneath the parking cars and licks

its rear before stretching and curling up. 

Quite feverish, I feel time peddle heat

through the veins, hear the children

croon in the manner they are tutored.

"This is the summer of everything."

I remember you used to say in the end.

I hold onto my shivering blurred to bleach. 

Published on April 17th, 2023