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Spring


Spring,
at random,
paves everything
platinum.

It twists and
bends
the streets
in a knot
of a pretzel,
and heats
the blood.

The hand
drops the pencil.

It’s hot
even at nights,
when the lights
of the street-lamps
collapse
on people’s shoulders
like needles
and bodies smolder.

As the mercury reaches
the triple digits,
the sweat,
in beads and droplets,
covers the forehead
and dampens
the virgin bed
sheets.