I steep
in its cauldron.
These are days not swallowed
before they breathe.
Their evenings bridge
toward morning, one motion,
a splendid indolence,
a long novel.
This season’s not
bound in batting;
it thunders
through thin linen.
I am a slow cooking roast;
by the end of August
my center will be warm
but still red.

Natasha Saje

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