The Sweat of Summer
It is the sweat of summer,
these starving days.
It is as if there were
no rain until summer,
then dry rain only.
The walkways are dry,
remiss,
all ashen in the moonlight.
Steadily a mist is forming,
a covering of vapor.
The hours are bogged down
like bicycles in sand.
Time ticks slowly;
a cloud crosses the moon.
If this be summer,
a time of pruning,
a time of casting off,
let it be so.
Let the urges march
forth into battle.
Summer will rage on
until exhausted it slows.
I am a rag
dampened by the sweat
of summer.
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