| Poetry |
A Body of Work
Where Autumn glutted on Summer's leave,
and heat, no scholar, shadowed through glassy squares,
is where the ash of my parents peppered the sea
some time ago.
I exist in a home that is without me, but have made it
a stable or calf-house— I've offspring, Spring's jaunt,
and let my son glut; I heat him with antics,
no, not serious, not intellect or artistry— Joy.
I wrote him as I was written; I can not edit,
my parenting is quest-less, a Summer making Spring,
with a beloved heat that is both ancient and novice.
By Ray Succre
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