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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Summer Lassitude

I am waiting for a storm.
Something to break the monotony.
A bow of red on the radar.
Behind it calm.
But wildness in its face.
The clawing of arms,
chasing little creatures into holes,
birds shivering on their nests.

Pulling the clouds apart
stitch by stitch,
unraveling the bed.
A howling drunkard at the door.
What my blood needs,
a hurricane inside me,
to go out slapped and pummeled,
feeling life well up
in a gargantuan fist
with death as a partner.

And then,
when it is over,
exhausted,
feeling the calm fall of rain
on the ruins,
hear the whispering of water
washing the street.
That’s what I want.
The rendering of this
humid lassitude,
into a tart juice
falling inside me,
a cherry,
sour,
with its hard pit in my mouth.

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