The Lindens are in Flower

On these nights in July
When you must be elsewhere
The bedroom still grows warm
And I open the window to breathe.

Outside, the lindens are in flower.
When I close my eyes,
Their scent seeps into the sheets
And I whisper your name.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, John MacKenzie, John MacKenzie Poetry, Lindens, New poems, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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