Monday, June 29, 2020

LATE JUNE POEM

with a shadow that grows 
like mold
and a shudder that passes 

quick as snakes 
through the dingy buildings 
and tired piles of construction dust 

the sharp cold rain, 
for one stupendous moment
peels sideways through the city streets

and soaks you 
cleanly 
through your shirt―

and after, under clammy hair 
and orange-yellow skies, 
you're surprised 

and delirious to find you're 
alive 
and unhurt.