Hinge
When just in lingered scented air
outstretching in unbalanced days
without the fullest heat of summer
or forgotten cold, you, without reply
before the month is ended: slowly
start to die.
Not waiting for all flower bloom,
or trees to plump, their fruit to swell,
in single primal pivot hour,
our longest shadow turns, our hands hung loose
at our side.
Sill, the rain hangs in season
coming from the early year.
Still the turning, turning still
in orange haze upon our eyes
grown used to useful, useless days,
counting less.
June you are more cruel than May.
If it may be said that hope is worst;
than failure, or success.
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