Day 489, July 19, 2021

 How Things Used to Be

The water is high. 
It has been raining for days,
weeks it seems.

I remember summer rain
differently.

The smell of wet asphalt.

A t-shirt slicked tight
like a second skin.

Bodies pressed together
for warmth.

The musty spruce
of the inside of a tent.

I don't remember rain
swallowing cars
and rendering streets
down to stone and sand.

It probably happened,
but I didn't pay attention
because I was too preoccupied
by the smells and bodies
and the promise of nakedness,
or near nakedness
and how it would feel
to be dry and warm
and forgetful.

The swollen river.


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