SUMMERTIME LADY
Against the
milky sky
that weighs
on the woods
she hoists
her heavy folds
above the
sleepy hills.
She dozes
torpid
thick and
chalky
She has done
ruling over
plains
commanding
the chimneys
of Gardanne
She is a dead
volcano
a
white-haired woman
she is no
longer Cézanne’s.
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