This Place

Late at night, late summer.
Only a thin cicada call
unsettles the heavy air
and 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 land
with diagonal hail,
but here it is still
almost. 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 sun
drove a dagger in my heart
and I couldn’t pull it out
but here I am.

I let the chair rock back a bit,
put my hands behind my head
and close my eyes.


Hear it:


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