by Jennifer Soong
Come July, the yolk of a year
is dragged to lie on lawns of velvet sheen.
Dark-light blades, one-tenth-an-inch wide,
over which the red sun hunches, immobilized.
With what do we lie, waiting the night
on the hot black earth to erupt from us
a muddled report? How little we do.
How little we rest. How much we demand
from the daily murders passing
vulture-like, like stars.
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