|The Whitefire Summer|
Summer brings the straw air
wafting through the old screens (1)
of empty histories.
I don’t remember the shards of blood
shed by the ancestral fragments
for my children,
playing on this porch,
pushing their little toy canoes
over the hot gray cement.
We are the final children
walking alone through the desolate silence
of the great tawny beach.
The faithful sea lies dead by our feet:
after a billion years, it has perished,
resting, lifeless and broken,
rotting in its lonely gutter.
The futile tears of death
have gathered in our footprints,
leaving a trail of hopeless little mirrors
in the ancient sand.
The quiet, crystal currents
blow the soft, windy hair
over the loving flesh,
a golden testimony to the shining eye
of the Whitefire Summer.
The searing heat pours down
like hot, heavy syrup,
onto the dogs, sleeping like soppy brown rags,
oblivious to rocks and dust and black rubber tires;
onto the cars, cursing dryly in the surging, swirling
rivers of glass and steel;
onto the big houses and spinning fans and patient trees
and grapes and grass and sidewalks and brittle pages.
1. As in rusty screens on old screen doors.
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