Last Summer

The garden stands as still as a lake would
when no breeze can find you
in that chair, legs sticking to the wicker
leaving bumps that itch like bites. You drink
slippery wine with ice, unquenched.
A book, spine-bent in your lap, idle under
an empty hand. Waiting for tomorrow's

something to happen. A girl
bouqueted in daisies peers around
whistling without a sound, a storm
collecting itself to blow away the afternoon.
Thunder forgets, we run for pines. Except you
stand on the path, white dress running
like glue over tanned and naked boughs.

This is what is referred to as radical revision, so it's really not cheating at all. I took one line from an earlier poem and wrote a new poem. The original is here. Expect more things like this as we near the end of the month, end of the semester.....