by Mary Audrey Kneipp

The sun slips its fingers
like kitchen matches
through slits in
Venetian blinds
and blazes,
lighting the oven
my living room is.

September her red-hot self
is staring in;
I shut the windows against
her burning breath.
Does she know her future is
ashes? No matter, she’s
getting her second wind now
and then another
before it’s the death of
summer. It will end in the way
we blow out matches.

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