this is the week we wear our summer clothes
all of them
five pairs of gossamer trousers slung over a chair back, wearing at least two a day until the knees find their niche halfway down the leg, halfway through the day
a top from last century which smells of wardrobes we have known, suitcases long-cracked, plastic bags and boxes, the bottom drawer where an empty perfume bottle was tucked into the arm sleeve, a treasure from the past set up as a joy trap to trigger future memories
daisy decolletage dresses that will not last the day of twists and tumbles as we roll down that grassy hill where no dogs have quivered
summer always seems so robust when we’re in it
lengthy as the day
it’s time that’s flimsy