August, the afternoon
of the year, when the civilized
retreat to shelter and shade.
I wake early, before morning
climbs over the mountain. I wake
hot, distressed. I run away from
my dreams. I wake in dampness,
and sleep again. I wake late
in the morning. I wake in wet
sheets. I dream of volcanos,
and wake with this heat on my
face. Last night a wind came
through our courtyard. It snapped
the top off the birch tree. I woke
this morning to the whining snarl
of the arborist's saw. The drowsy
hours. If there is conversation,
it is languid and undemanding.
If there is skin on skin, it is slick
and slippery. The air is heavy
and smells of smoke.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
http://sb.chatango.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sbmontana/
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