I swore nothing would grow upon this soil again, in heat waves that made even the trees turn red, but you looked down and spotted sprouts, proved my pessimism fleeting.
You cursed and wished I’d find some sense of worth higher than the insects burrowed in the dirt, but I’ve been hurt and you’ve seen worse summers yourself,
felt what hell is yelling up
close and center,
even night skies drenched with
I want us remembered for something more than warm bodies in a Kelvin bubble, stenciling our names in the sands with twigs, hardly subtle
to escape forests we rigged as ovens,
convince some distant breeze its immediate reliefs
would not be unbecoming.
Despite your sunny
I’m still running for the hills at sunrise.
I’ve had enough heat stroke to last