Sleep took the dreamer after the thunder and lightning to the sea and then a war that descended at the shoreline.
Airplanes decorated the sky without noise or music. Then, the refrain of rain and waking.
On one’s feet all day, the soles hurt and cry out to be unleashed upon sea water.
The heat of August dissipates in the rain.
Things seem the same but different, always different. The collaboration bespeaks a moving forward, a trajectory of tree frogs.
The end-product results in small deaths.
Out of breath, the lungs beg for more oxygen, more garden.
The garden begs for more rain, less lightning.
The dog hides from the severe thunderstorms, unable to go outside and relieve himself.
There are crosses we bear throughout the day and in the crossover of day to night.
So tired all the time, the body cries out for stupor, for dreaming. For believing in gentle kindnesses, the play of animals frolicking in the grass or sea.
We could be a we if we weren’t so tired and jaded. We could laugh all night and decorate the morning.
Love is a camel hoarding rain.
Pain is an excuse for a drama of wanting, of waiting for the particulars of August to collect in manageable order.
There was fodder for the windmill, wind for the empty seesaw.
The film told us things we didn’t want to know. We grew with the garden.
We laughed in the rain. Our pain bound us to our bodies.
Our memories of other summers flooded in.
It’s like… Rambeau… but mature. As if he lived.
Rimbaud