the blanket of august

Between spring and now, I’ve been held in the hazy stretch that lingers around August. I have been all wrapped up in the memory of August — a big blue blanket spread wide across the season, with edges brushing against July and September. Inside, I sleep, though never deeply. Awake — with each small glimpse of dreaming. I toss. I turn. I sob, and I stay — I always stay. Each movement pulls between…