That is almost a breath, wheezy machine. Between the run off of brutal rains we thin what garden tomatoes remain. This summer is a lingering fast forward: an uncovered VCR tape of memories. The lungs want to trust; anything to escape the sensation of drowning. Each day a fish is forced to grow legs a heart a steam engine smelling of diesel and life. These joints need appropriate crank grease. The skin is a bilge wall, keeping in the sweat. This day, a magnetic tape of dreams, brittle under the sun.
Tag Archives: August
I am reteaching myself to read the clouds
I am reteaching myself to read the clouds. The August air is thick and sticky, turns my lungs into tired chewing gum. Standing on the wharf packing my pipe, I listen to the whispers of the old men in my memories. They remind me: the weight of the clouds, how they crawl across the sky. Fast or slow or in-between. I am reteaching myself to read the clouds. Geography matters. River valleys are different than coastal towns from big sky country. I can close my eyes and see the southern Arizona desert, the layers of suspended dust, the haze of heat bouncing off cement, the urban lights. Storms that come up from the south follow the river like a man in search of a lost limb. August is a haze that’s moved in a week early.
that cool breeze
a tease portendimg
the lightening
Autumn 2023, no. 11
the cicada symphony sets today’s rhythm
and expectation
it’s a day best suited for gills and exoskeletons
sloughing off this skin
one drop of sweat at a time
unsure of what the rebirth will look like
or if this will be the waking from a dream