Poem: Humid Day

 

Humid Day

 

air crowds us hapless animals,

its puffy abdomen

of spongy muscle.

 

can’t breathe,

such wet, bluff heat

height of a hulking grave,

 

oppressive

tepid, slimy merger 

of air-water-ground.

 

can’t move,

a stuck stride,

enough to catch mice,

 

and the feet of birds,

this quicklime of oxygen,

so mean.

 

we are half-dead, hot and moist,

under a cellophane 

of soggy atmosphere.

 

the roses in the garden are fat redcoats

bled, bled, bled--

to die in a motionless war.

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6/24/24...

9/4  "to die" ...