The days made ancient with wind. Our armories unleash secret chambers. Knives in the lawn. Railroad ties aloft in the swamp cooler of days, evaporative spray, watching a huge poodle walked thru dusty streets.
Tucson, down dog.
A muff of cicadas, a couple beers.
Bless this laundry on the bed. To be folded days. To not. To be articulated somehow and addressed afterward, for the first time, on a lonely stump.
Just look at me, Day. I am born like a word, repeated like a word. infinitely divisive.