Summer Solstice

13

A bit longer and the sun will stop.

The ghosts of dawn

blew among the dry conches;

to a bird chirped three times, three times only;

the lizard on the white rock

remains motionless

looking at the parched grass

there where a tree snake slid away.

Black wing incises a deep gash

high in the sky’s blue dome—

look at it, it’ll open.

Birth pain of resurrection.

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