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Read a poem by another poet written
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with slow moon dividing the night the month leaps in fits and sprinkles: heat, extraordinary, keeps us indoors there's little to do, and even making love all day like in the myths is not an option. Cicadas, still heat, cactus silence only the desert could produce, once we stopped at a small waterfall where one could slide down the smooth rock into a pool of cool water i lost my glasses and had to fish around for them before the next slider came. the superheated earth and smell of sage— the way to conquer the heat was often to delve into the midst. The Havasu Indians deep inside the Grand Canyon marked by short tunnels left by mining explorers that go nowhere still make their own frybread from ingredients packed down by mules. the skinny older kid introduced us to Dungeons and Dragons but we had no taste for it. complicated was an awful thing to be. here in the city, sirens incessantly
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