The heat will break but not before it breaks us. We do not acknowledge dreams of that blizzard from collective childhood memories, the world suspended like an insect in arctic amber… that urge for the silence right before snow falls
forgetting that silence terrifies us.
Tag Archives: heat
for the empty short dog in the river
Smoking my pipe near the north end of the wharf
my prayers waft skyward on tobacco smoke flatboats
burned by the big boiler setting over the lock.
Empty, we both float, having learned
this world melts for want of vivid dreams.
heat of the night: July 2023
before she curled up to sleep on the bench, the woman lit a match and burned a small piece of paper she had rolled up. it was a prayer. she wore an old sweatshirt with a ruffled dickey on it, the sort of thing a grandnephew might give for Christmas. people come to the river all the time and burn little prayers. sometimes, in the absence of fire, they leave them on a bench or the wall in case God walks by. the entire wharf is an altar and we are all offered up.