Dog Days

 

Chance breeze - so slight.

Sun’s presence - so clear.

No clouds in sight.

Dog days are here.

 

All life has ceased

living, but doesn’t die,

except for the feast

of the nagging fly.

 

It’s stifling - relentless.

The earth cracks to dust.

To move is senseless…

in the eternity before dusk.

 

Water abounds,

but in no tangent state.

It’s pulled from the ground

in a thick steamy slate.

 

It gathers afar,

forming ghostly pools;

acting like apples before

the parched eyes of fools.

 

We all are fools,

or so it seems,

when the mirage we’ve followed

turns out… to be our dreams.

 

July 30, 1987

 

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