7.17

flat heat, dry waterfall revealing

the bones of trees, twigs, mud

hen nothings at the bottom

of its pond.

mid July leaves fall to the

century mark temps, while

spare weeds scrabble across

dry garden beds

and yet there is a breeze, life,

slow, measuring steps that

take time to comment on the

ubiquity of persistence.

we stay indoors, move slow,

hide from whatever else is

coming in an artificial world that

lets us live as if it all wasn’t there.

as a child dad insisted that

the fan in my window flow

outwards, pulling the air across

their bed but not mine.

It never got to me I swear, sweat

and the mattress felt all one

until sleep came somewhere

in the night.

now I move across air conditioned

spaces with cautious tread

to stay a measured step ahead

of naked nature.

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