Late summer hearts, swollen

            from sun and seed, never make it past

            shallow lawn chair basins

or spots behind glasses of ice

perspiring, drowning themselves.

                        Everyone has stopped watching.       

                                   

Soon, wild black eyed ladies will blossom

from the scalp of earth

                        where beautiful things are

            rotting. 

This is as good as my triadic line poem is getting. I'm honestly not even fucking able to offer any legitimacy to the structured clauses, let alone the fucking format. aha.  But I'll offer it up to you, oh blog gods, to do with it what you will. 

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