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by Kristin Roedell

June, I bleach your shirts
and dry them on the grass,
the collars standing up like
white gulls on the lawn.
Starlings nest beneath the eaves,
Ducks with tucked bills
Sleep on the hot dock–
the sailboat spinnaker
unfurls in the garage.

July, we have a party.
We lie on the roof
and count fireworks,
we burn a fire on the beach.
The lake dogs swim for sticks
the children from the block
become indistinct
in the green dusk.

August, you paint the deck;
For a month it is a field
of fresh snow.
Nights are still, only birds;
we touch hands, but sleep
away from each other
under the hot sheets.


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