Monday
Here’s an H.D. poem for those suffering through temperatures reaching up into the 120s (50 centigrade) in places like Phoenix, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas. Hang in there:
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air–
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat–
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
