Tyler Sherman
Summer, Starving
It's summer wherever I am,
and I'm hot and sweating
from it.
Salt melts when it's that humid;
into a queer syrup in the bucket
in the basement.
As you love me, I'll drink it.
Sticky spiteful, with constituent
additions of
non-sustaining elements and
I'll accept them through the
quenching hot
with wet—however concrete
saline, body wrongly.
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