siesta

If I shut my eyes to it,

I can strike low..

 

hit a high c, machete

weeds cringing in the

undergrowth; burn

 

villagers who, a few

short years ago, in turn,

stormed here, now mere

non-distinct individuals,

but still..

 

The air is dead still

but for a stray

whistler

 

even the wine-soaked flies

can’t stand.

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