Blistering heat making it difficult to walk a block, hot
enough, they claim, to fry an egg on the sidewalk, which I might try if I have
a hankering for an egg, though in truth, I am hotter on the inside than
without, like a lobster, boiling in my own broth, seeking some relieve in the cool
of a dark room here I might let my imagination play, this need to vibrate, even
at my age, stirred up like old coals, from memories long out of date, the same
face floating before me in this dim room, more spirit than real, I merely
pretend it is what it is, long enough for relief to come, this hear,
unmeasurable inside or out, blistering even as it spurts out here between my
fingers.
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