All the Summer Nights poem by David Michael Jackson


Just a quest,
wasn’t it?
We were caught,
it seems,
in that painting which
captured the moment,
in that touch of the hand,
that kiss, yes surely in that
kiss.
The moonlight has become passe’
it seems.
Vanity.
All the summer nights were
there in the touch of
a tiny hand.
Oh the folly of destiny

***


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