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June Seventh
Hot lights shimmer with the blind movements
Of flying insects, and the air is thick
And foggy with the smell of perfumed bug spray.
It doesn't seem to keep the mosquitos away.
I sit on an uneven bench watching
The stars watching me
And wondering what they see--
A reflection of myself?
Or something else,
Lost in the screaming of tires as they drive away,
Washing amber headlights across the sky.
And the darkness concealing my tears.
Contributed by:
Kristen Comer
<rcomer@nci2000.net>
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