Little bones (some bird’s) sun-bleached: the world
overexposed, sun-rotted. That shadow inside me an
inverse mirror where dazzled dim blindness pools.
Stagnant puddle: cyclopean eye lying in the mudflat,
lying about the cyan sky. I’d give back my share of
light-and-dark to quiet the flies buzzing around its edge.
Chalk dust: powdered graves, ancient diatom sea-drift
compacted drought on drought now talc exhaled by the
last hot breath of summer, and I whisper again for rain.