The ache of summer carries the

Scent of boxwood in heated repose,

The haze of afternoons before thunder.

Each August, my mind returns to

The bricks and mortar of youth,

The locust-pitched rooflines of campus,

Where ambition stood erect

As colonnades in oaken sunlight.


We spend decades shaping the

Plywood annex of all that comes next.

It takes immoderate courage to wade

The gathering fluorescent days, and

We solder meanings with our English

Major remnants and wait

For the form, the vision,

The name of what we were to be.


by David Loope


David Loope lives and works in Virginia. His poems have appeared in Wayfarer and DeadMule.

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