a clutch of rain
at your fingers.
heat swells the form
of this day like old wood.
a wincing breath, and glare,
you squint against
the bleached white air.
seeking refuge
you rake your fingers across the sky
but nothing happens except
a rip rendered, dry dust in the blue
seeking refuge
you curl inward to the closest shade,
and sigh, your eyes pricked open,
aware.
you rest uneasy, and
sleep does not come.
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