Writer Between Worlds

this smothering. 

this incandescence. 
this slowing down of industry. 

this blistering disintegration into 
idle particles – 

placid, primordial, like the silence,  
pierced only by the terrified barking of 
the lone dog 
desperate 
to sound brave. 

this viscous, heavy blinding 
doubling down on your shoulders. 

this begging for a breeze, 
the impossibility of shade and 

the shedding of my restlessness. 
this dozing off into breath, skin, sweat. 

this melting into 
every whitewashed wall 

this melting away 
of future and past. 

this not wanting – not needing – 
to write. 

these hours slowly ripening and 
plopping down like plums. 

this fleeting, everlasting moment of 

summer.