1355.

Calendars marking
some memorial of the
loss of moving time.

1354.

We dress so many
days up as some idea of
honor on paper.

1353.

The impending fall
of the senses as engulfed
by youth's passing time.

1352.

These months are built on
yearning and lures, held up by
the summer looming.

1351.

A thousand lures of
flesh. An eye's feast made hungry
by slow seduction.

1350.

I would coat myself
in your voice and call this skin
a constant tempting.

1349.

The nights of this time
of year are sheer perfection.
Breezes and moonlight.