One of those evenings
in the zippered tent of August
where you feel for the seams
to let the god awful humidity out
and end up fingering
the tightly sewn seams of your own torn skin.
Rosaried silent recitals,
that maybe some of the water
so abundant outside your hide
might come in
and evaporate against the pile
of your heart
and turn klaxons
to quiet, sleep rivered, hymns.
