Late at night, late summer. Only a thin cicada call unsettles the heavy airand I’m alone. Like a clump of earth or a piece of string I slump in my rocking chair, not rocking. It’s nearly done, and now the cicada stops. Maybe a front coming in. Somewhere west, beyond these sunken hills and long thin valleys, it may be punishing the landwith diagonal hail, but here it is stillalmost. The edge of a curtain flickers. Some heavy leaves bump up against each other softly. The void within my chest and in my head begins to shift. I have forgotten what I am.
Just yesterday, the August sundrove a dagger in my heartand I couldn’t pull it outbut here I am.I let the chair rock back a bit, put my hands behind my head and close my eyes.
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