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Jane Brunton

It's Summer

It’s summer.
Dogs barking in closed cars.

It’s summer.
Blisters from your new sandals.

It’s summer.
Flabby asses eating their shorts.

It’s summer.

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The Thaw

Overhead-passes spit contemptuously at passing cars.
Power lines emerge from dripping silver cocoons.

Black bark peeks through the ice like worn silver plate.
Pine trees, released of their white cargo lift up their arms like schoolboys at recess.

Winter’s dirty secrets are revealed.

February 2003

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