I live in a land of no seasons:
our summer sits on the Hollywood sign,
a fat bladder
of pineapple juice and sunscreen.
We tread into June,
and the bladder explodes.
The liquid spews down the hills,
flooding across July and August.
We flail about with mops,
trying in vain to clean it up,
but the stickiness only spreads,
trickling into
our autumn, our winter.
But by the time we catch up with it,
filthy rags in hand,
it’s June,
and we’re too late.


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