I had a summer love once, but my fingernails were too long
by autumn. I slit its throat with them and
have done the same to mine more than once over,
more than twice over, more than fifty or even sixty I assume.
My summer love sang songs to me in winter
that sounded like a harpsichord
although they were made by a computer or something. It
is not ruined as long as I feel like strawberries are
in season – I taste maple syrup on him,
coming from places too cold to stick on your fingers, I have
myself knee deep in the twelve months of a year.
The walk to orange groves will take
too long. I know I’ll be sick of calling him my summer love.