Now, the clocks hold up their arms. Since dawn, no moisture.
The sun plunders the rich maze of the earth, and our bodies
swelter under the sticky shade of trees. A phone
wire flashes into mirages and out again: a streak
of lonely silver, running slenderly to the sea,
escaping the shimmer of dancing towns. Now, the leak
of seconds. The clocks obey the pulling sun and rasp
in unison. Shadows embroider a charred bush.
Soon, the tilted day will atone our suffering.
We burn with our straight fevers like the shadowless plants.