Concrete

The concrete keeps everything
in place, except the wind,
the bums,
you.

I walked by the market,
40 centigrade, still the picture
of heat on your January breath,
water being
light.

I pulled in, caught in
the ropes of rain on the driveway
at the edge of
an island, I catch the earth
caving in
again.

I pray that in the morning
worms will have made it through,
drowned the sidewalks,
knowing that there were only
moments in which
to breathe.

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