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