Friday, July 24, 2020

Summer Unseen

Bone sky so bare, it's not there.
The one bird who pegged it down
Has gone to ground. Not a speck

To snag your quick glance. The air
Is sand on the tongue and hot
On your arms, but for the eyes

No words left to rue the day.
Sniff how dry this is: baked grass,
Ant dirt, white air. You don't say.

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