Summer Humidity
It is the coolest night of summer
so far, and walking is finally a pleasure.
Once, two summers ago,
I walked outside, bathing in
humidity. Air only came
out, practically none came in.
What panic that must incite
to those caught off guard:
So this is death, they think
in that frantic choking
we sometimes get.
I walk home tonight
through a clearer darkness than
usual. I can only wonder
what weather will envelop me
in tomorrow’s afternoon heat.
Admittedly, this is rough, and could be separated from its stanzaic form, but still -- is that ending sour, focusing so much on myself, in the end?
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