Heat Index

yet another summer poem

Heat Index

This far into August 
what doesn’t come undone?
I’ve walked far enough 
to locate where dusk begins, 
the block where my world ends. 
A ribbon of gnats 
rotating around a street lamp.
This far into August—
the only relief is sleep.
And in the morning shadows evaporate 
before touching ground.
The mountain a shard of gravel
propped against the horizon. 
A bird or a cloud could dislodge it.