Within the bright white day
the sky is milking clouds on neglect
I can see the spent wisps
as the drain opens and empties
its curious mix around and about a tree
Across the parched pavement
the sirens are calling the dogs
to be sentinels of sound
to howl ears pricked
catching each other’s echos
The valley hop-scotches
and the heat waves are chalked
to catch the first drop
I await the cement's moan and the drum beat
the slowly moving drift of it
cracks skin like parchment
and rustles with the scratch
of an empty ink tray
waiting for the touch of moist fingers
to take me down to clay
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