I knew Anton in the summer
When wisps of hair
cluttered against my face,
and the bugs clung to the screen
doors.

The wood in the yard
soon to rot, and the heat
so palpable you could swim
through it,

Anton with a hand
slung at the hip; a word
sung in a whisper,
or just the silence of
sitting in the setting sun's
light, sucking itself
downward into night.

I know Anton in the
summer, and the summer
knew him like a lover,
feasting on his cheek bone,
shy, coquettish influx
of a finger, a broken
bone, a raised eyebrow,

a season
suffocates

again.