it’s one hundred degrees
and the power
is out
the stale air
carries
the tinge of brimstone
satan’s breath
carries over the land
to hang heavily
like the body of
the first poet
from
an old oak tree
it’s one hundred degrees
and the power
is out
the stale air
carries
the tinge of brimstone
satan’s breath
carries over the land
to hang heavily
like the body of
the first poet
from
an old oak tree
