Sunday, July 3, 2011

third of July

The night is aloof, though not entirely unkind. The air cools from boil to swelter, the breeze finally then setting in. The wind wicks away the beaded sweat that trickles down exposed flesh and soaks whatever clothes that have yet to be abandoned. Fireworks bang and spark, everyone freed from the weight of the day. Every third block is half a riot.

Garbage cans line the street, awaiting their Monday morning appointments with the truck. A restlessness stalks and huddles, ordinary life held in suspense, held in pieces. The squeal of traction broken, the shouts of drink and smoke, that hole in the world that winds through every belly open wide and howling. We go a little blind from the habit of seeing what we want to. Day or night, search and scavenge as we may, something is missed.

It is still too hot for sleeping. Too hot for thinking or for words that release. The water glass, slick with condensation, has gone from ice tepid. Each swallow allows a little respite while evoking further thirst. Each drink another considered effort against the slow decline. Mosquitoes shine by porch light, floating along the ley lines of their naked appetites. Some blood savored, some blood relinquished. Some blood left to replenish the stock.

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