Poem: Humid Day

 

Humid Day

 

air crowds us,

a puffy abdomen

of spongy muscle.

 

can’t breathe,

such wet heat

the weight of a hulking grave,

 

oppressive,

air, water, ground,

this tepid, wormy simmer.

 

can’t move much,

a stuck stride,

gluey enough to catch mice,

 

and the feet of birds.

this quicklime of humidity,

so wet,

 

we are caught, half-dead animals,

hot and still moist,

under the cellophane of the atmosphere,

 

and the trees fat redcoats

bled, bled, bled--to die

in a motionless war.

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9/4  "to die" ...