I come to you like summer
and for the same reason that summer comes.
I prance before you, for you—
make a spectacle of myself—
but driven to be the one that knocks you up.
Every-man, I guess…
but I’m the one that’s here.
Freud and Skinner and Mead
have told us why,
But this is not the time
I’m busy making a fool of myself
Join me in foolishness,
let your passion escape your fear,
And I will give you what you need:
memories to caress and embellish,
Purpose without explanation:
one who has to love you.
And what of the end of summer
when I am gone
And you are full of life
and lonelier than before?
You can have it all again,
the memories, the dreams—
Summer need never end
if those memories are made.
It’s not the things you do that haunt,
it’s all those things you left undone.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.
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