you empty your purse full of gold coins into the wishing well
inside the forest which never darkens & like fishing nets,
it doesn’t let go of the things that come into its hold.
the water rises up as if for all its love, it wants to wipe you away
& aren’t we all losers in love anyway? summer's long legs—bare &
folded over each other, a pineapple crushed between them:
are those cherries floating on glittered water or is it the blood clotting
& remember too much sun means too much sunscreen,
but what if the summer we’re pining for doesn’t even exist?
summer isn’t a season, she is a nymph peaking over the blue waters
& we’re sitting in a seaside café, gazing over & we keep hearing
you lost the sunset from the depths of the sea—
i’m going to think about you, just wait & while you’re waiting,
come have a drink with me; it’s vodka with cherries plucked from the moon.
maybe you’ll find your lost gold coins underneath your glass,
clinking & thinking why are we still talking about summer when
it’s as if she never existed? why be a river when you could be a storm?
summer’s in a corset, she passes me too quickly for me to hold her
& tell her, you’re finally mine, but the shadow of her lips is quivering
or is it just as melancholic that we can’t ever touch her & here:
she hunches over the forest, watching every coin fall like the way
the pineapple stains her dress—and you. my head on your shoulder
& we’re peeling voices from sweet tangerines, eyes burning
like roman candles & summer is watching;
distant like a fishing boat sailing across the sea on a spring day
because she, too, knows we have found her just to lose her again. yet—
Written by. Berrs (Editor)
Painting by. Ron Hicks (Romantic Soul, 1965)