The summer is already high up in the sky. I hide my sun behind the tree.

Tree eminently rhymes with John Donne’s flea, a tiny subject of lover’s contemplation. The subject is not physical about the lover whose unconsenting blood mingles with his in a flea. Just a little and beyond the physical.

The flea is a conjugal bed , a sacred cloister for union of two souls. The bodies do not figure anywhere except for the blood they supply.

You entreat not to kill three in a flea
It is sacred room this tiny flea’s body
To consummate union , you and she.

It is not a sinful union inside the flea
A maiden’s loss is negligible in body.
A metaphysical may however be silly.

My dog, the one who had followed my pantleg some days ago is not seen today. It must be busy with its fleas.

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