Well, the world conspired against a poem on Saturday, so here's one a few days late.
grim revolver. rolling thunder in the wee distance. each step is a miracle and a calamity. each little passing a heat wave all its own, another ubitious swing of the scythe to bring this year's bounty to market. stop staring and close your mouth: the water is rising and your bile is contagious. insert the memory card and begin recording whatever you see. just keep filming. this is all the good stuff. everything ends in punctuation marks
