July

is a bug swarm,
     a rat den,
a browning of the skin.
     July is creeping
shamefully — flat-footed
down the wide planks
of the hall floor too
late at night, is
a drift
along the coast — up
and down and inland 
to where the
air stops.
A big storm, but
     still drought.
Sleep, like a corpse, 
     but still exhaustion. 
The hydrangea
by the door droops
but is still fierce
in its blueing 
     a reminder. 

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