things take place
before my eyes

through a blurring
sheet of heat, limbs

flopping along
in an insomniac mood

the road towards dusk
still a desert, a hammer

bending a nail, no cloud
sliding into freshness

except for the light wind
that sweeps the birch tree

under the framed window
where I’m seeing and unseen.

editors note: Remember that swelter well, when winter whips us to whine for that swelter again. – mh clay