Too Hot Lament
Quagmire bullies the afternoon into soup.
I can't inhale this blotchy air and smoke, I'll
suffocate if this goes on! Selfish Apollo
poxes the afflicted with his summer tax!
The frosted hearts deserve deep shade,
wouldn't compassionate populists say?
I wouldn't know, squeaky wheels top
ground gears, I appear a beached tadpole.
Jove save me, the world becomes a waiting
room each year, chariot clattering hours
upended. I need clammy, trancelike sleep,
impressionable murky cities beneath grey suns.
The hotter the summer the harsher the hum.
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