AUGUST

The trees stand still

And the night takes on a stolid pout.

The clouds don’t rain steam upon the ground

They hoard their water

Misers with buried gold

There are no murmurs

Only whirs of fans

Rotating their blades

Around

And around

And around

Every rotation more labored

Every spin

Slows

Down.

Moving the stagnant water caught in air drops

From left to right

And back again.

Houses sweat and heave

Paint strips

Peeling back

From wood

Opening their shirts with creaking groans.

Begging for a quick release

Instead of a slow surrender

To days yellow dogs only pant

And smaller animals can be bold.

Shirts stick like wet swimsuits

Sidewalks shimmer

And the asphalt waves

Making all the abandoned playgrounds

Look like salt flats

That melt rubber tires into

Pools of gummy tar.

These are the days of no-tongued speech

And porches that creak.