But no, the birds refuse to help. They are going to bed. I shall be forced to resort to the noisy electric fan that ruins the placidity of the evening. On your heads be it , birds!
Hotter tomorrow. Oh, July.
Sunday Verse
How I Come to You
by Molly Peacock
Even a rock
has insides.
Smash one and see
how the shock
reveals the rough
dismantled gut
of a thing once dense.
Making the cut
into yourself,
maybe you hoped
for rock solid through.
That hope I hoped,
too. Dashed
on my rocks was my wish
of what I was. Angry,
dense and mulish,
I smashed myself and found my heart
a cave, ready to be
lived in. A start,
veined, unmined.
This is how I come to you:
broken,
not what I knew.