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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