As the last bits of sun brush

the sporadic clouds in pink.

late August heat flows slowly

across your skin like whispers.

Cicadas, nearby, hum desire to others

who hum along in the distance.

Even the trees are tired, dropping

their leaves like an old man’s regrets.

The moon, of course, rises once more

from the dark, alone and unnoticed.

(August 28, 2020)


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