l o n g
like sweet taffy in your teeth,
slow and sticky and mellow,
though not so improbably colored.
and the crickets tune their afternoon band
and the sun slants down through the trees
not yet dressed for autumn,
and each day fills full as twelve,
a minute potent as an hour,
sliding down like the last of the hard lemonade,
and even the heat has lost its fierce edges,
turned worn and soft from so much use,
and the nights are like the deepest velvet
or black rose petals
or a goodbye kiss.