after the fourth

it is easy to get swept away in lazy summer days. i, especially, follow my senses. rather than watch fireworks and barbecue, i did something i have not done in a long time...i wrote. it's a beginning.

there is an ache, a thirst
a gaze to lost horizons
there is a crack in the wall just large enough for my index finger
i pick at the stucco like a prickly scab and smell brine
the crack grows
my chalky finger runs along the ridges
it is slow, this wearing away
i pause, straining to hear something, anything
to signal my progress
but there is no sound
only my measured breathing

some days it is easy to breathe the words, light them and watch them burn
and leave the air pungent with smoke
but today, i line them up like sticks, straight and precise
they stand abject and motionless waiting for me waiting for them