Sonnet

with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves

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