It was so dreadfully hot the second night of summer that most of the cicadas swelled up
And died. I was suprised the blood didn’t boil down the street, But the river ran steady
Down Limestone.
They washed it off by three, the court house and I left our lights on,
Our windows stared with the same wide-eyed shock as meeting at the intersection—
The lights pooled in glistening mirrors, Abject love and terror blurred between lines.
It’s absurd, really—I had half a face of make-up on wondering if I should give a fuck.
They built a stage ontop of it the next day, crowds were dancing and singing;
It feels wrong to write a eulogy.
Who am I to claim a grief so unknown? We can only assume the same shocked
Expression—a hand over our mouth; pathetic, humiliating humanity,
Without words.