The Passage of June

The crux of summer
flattens out like a sigh.
These longest days
go the fastest,
yet at times like today
the pace feels languid.
A temporal paradox:

June is the tesseract
of the year.

BJ watches monstrous
cotton puffs fill the window,
marching across the blue
like inexorable pillows,
like an army of drier lint.
Is time slowing down?
Or slipping by?

Beside her,
not quite in a sunbeam,
Doc naps deeply —
a breath in, a breath out —

From the sound of it
she thinks he dreams
of bears.

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