Summer is No Longer the Space Between Your Hands
In a house of words there is a table. On it,
summer’s sweet continuous skin folded to aphasia;
swelling ripe beneath our skins pinned
to the mirror like a postcard: in the
picture: a town with no name,
a barn of faded red paint. Near the barn,
I part cornstalks, pick milkweed by the river
bend and bury them between
the ribs of a black mare. Inside the barn, an apiary of hummingbirds
waits for harvest like the cool flicker of adolescence
craves gasoline. The current of a river sits:
of the space you haven’t been in years.
Seth Canner attends the University of Greenwich where he is Managing Editor of Projector Magazine. His work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Lit.cat, and Noble/Gas Qtrly.