7/29/12 this summer is tougher than its trees its excesses sadden the fields daily towards sundown the doves count in their own language all that's been lost facing such heat each breath like a ragged mouse slips in and out hoping not to be noticed when the nights start to get cool enough to open windows and the mornings scent out the next season coming I spend afternoons in a daydream time doesn't pass it can't move even a finger of course nothing gets done and so my presence counts for nothing nothing could be sitting in my place and the room be as it is