Sweet summer fenced in hearts of wild-rose hips
woven with gold of tight skirting scripts
and bird hums ending with slant rhyme lace slew
while high noon vapors all morning sap dew.
Heat. Should all questions dive under the lake
until sunset bursts in the last awake
sealed with red skies to sun’s red dissent?
Love, touch the highest cord of my LAMENT
let me be one with the blue-moon ASCENT;
Oh, I sing these slant rhymes of our GORGE
you are the one who ignites up the last TORCH.

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