A Fourth of a Poem

All around us, the plants whisper in dry brittle voices, “water us, water us.” Sotto voce, there is no water, and what falls is not wet or gentle, but drops of chthonic fireworks, urban, rural, coastal infernos. The plants dig and pray to Hades, and cooler there than here in this air.

Weather Retort

Day One: A trance of rain, ear churn momute. Day Two: Slide high noontide, sundersthorms plate. Day Three: Moistly scattered sneers and a few frizzles. Day Four: Chants of wrinkles, dartly cloudy and chowdery. Day Five: Humility Poor Boy Talls, Barometer IPA 75%. Day Six: Moggy, very low viability. Day Seven: Topical air mass pew…