watching a huge poo­dle walked thru dusty streets

The Swamp Cooler of Days

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.


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