with a burst of resolve, he lifts his chin
the effigy could be melting, pooling at his soles
an afternoon in august, some year past
a heap of clean white, discarded shirts
still, the silhouette of a bird
singing coyly above
a browning bush, her leaves curling away
from the blazing sun
she never could have turned
it wasn’t his fault, and he carried it all
sweat on his back, he lifts the last box
the infinite pavement could be the sea
the air could drown young souls
he pretends he can swim for the shore
© july 2011 heather brager
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