After the Heat
Center>Blooms bow their heads
in their terracotta bomb-shelters.
Distant thunderstorms nibble
at thin, bare-boned stems.
At last rain falls out of a booming air.
Yesterday nailed its skin to the sky,
now it sloughs in sloshing shreds.
This morning, mourning doves clatter
and roof-dance on wet tin.
The air has even revived my fat dog,
it chases its stubby tail
for the first time this summer.
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