Day 512, August 11, 2021

I Heard it On the Radio 

A heat wave settles in
like a wet dog.
There are no egrets,
no herons. 
It is the weather of
dead squirrels face up
on the side of the road.
It is the weather of
somebody's sick
splashed like a bucket
of paint.
The day is like
too much
butter
on a slice of toast.
Everything sounds
like a struggling
dragonfly
after an unaverted
collision.
Tonight,
I will sleep
and make up for
sleepless nights.
Sleep,
the balm for the
sane.

I work in this building.


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