Indian Summer

It was foretold

the year of the Indian Summer:

The wind flies to the western deserts

and pebbles in the river bed

turn to ruby stones.

 

On the wedding day, woeful coos

of turtle doves echo through the township

from dawn to dusk.

Guests in confetti dresses

sip lemon juice beneath the shade

of Spanish moss.

The bronze bell cracked

just before the virgin bride walked

in linen and lace

to the front of the steeple.

Heat sat on heavy haunches

in the rafters.

 

In search of a wife, the visitor

with the red felt hat alights from the train.

But the streets are empty,

the virgin is already kissed.

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