Submitted Date 03/12/2019

The trees stand still

And the night takes on a stolid pout.

The clouds don’t rain steam upon the ground

They hoard their water

Misers with buried gold

There are no murmurs

Only whirs of fans

Rotating their blades


And around

And around

Every rotation more labored

Every spin




Moving the stagnant water caught in air drops

From left to right

And back again.

Houses sweat and heave

Paint strips

Peeling back

From wood

Opening their shirts with creaking groans.

Begging for a quick release

Instead of a slow surrender

To days yellow dogs only pant

And smaller animals can be bold.


Shirts stick like wet swimsuits

Sidewalks shimmer

And the asphalt waves


Making all the abandoned playgrounds

Look like salt flats

That melt rubber tires into

Pools of gummy tar.


These are the days of no-tongued speech

And porches that creak.


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  • Tomas Chough 1 week, 2 days ago

    Awesome poem Zoe! You transmitted that summer heat very well. Thanks for sharing!

  • Miranda Fotia 1 week ago

    I'm not sure where you're from, but you sure have captured the way summer feels in NC. The humidity is so thick in the air here! Lovely poem!

    • Zoe Dabbs 6 days, 1 hour ago

      Thank you! August humidity seems to be universal wherever you’re from, but can imagine it’s on steroids in NC!

  • James D. 1 week ago