The smell of asphalt when it starts to rain

the slow continuation
of this languid, sweating day
falls down from the sky
to the bed where we lay.

a pleasant tinnitus
slung low around your waist
keeps the somnambulist
bereft of all his haste

the trees will sway, courteous,
blessing the homes with a bow-
and the pain in my back
has been silent ’til now.

it’s been years yet
and years will come farther
but i died in the sun
in the languid arms of march.

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