Tuesday, July 7

Poem: A Scorcher

A Scorcher

I

sweat

Ahelgany and Monongahela
scorch down my face.

My lungs toil
as woefully inadequate
bellows
enslaved in the blacksmith's forge.

Air is exchanged
Breathing but a memory,
as the Sun continues its
aggressive  interrogation.

My body a blunt
lethargic chisel
carves out with somber devotion
hot iridescent granite
blocks of heat
with each step I take.

Pressed to my brow
water and rocks fill
the goblet.

Precious droplets of well chilled
soothing elixir
resuscitate my soul.

Water.

More precious than Sovereigns.
More intoxicating than Absynthe.

Sigh.

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