Blue Moon | snapshot poem

 

Blue Moon

 

The first Blue Moon of August
cools the roof tiles, black
asphalt releasing its heat
into evening. Is it the illness

or the medications? Isolation
or inactivity? I do not move.
The past rises like mist
from the over-heated sea.

 

 

[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]

 

 

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