another midwestern summer’s night

it’s six thirty and the sun is still
high on this fourth day of summer. my
brains bake with little water and more
bourbon and an oven at four fifty with
a homemade pizza circular, stationary,
bubbling.

I sweat, type. I
cook, thinking about ice sheets, and dream
of a self, dull blade in hand,
shearing off the tops to fill my glass
and spreading my breath;
a dense fog, wafting
glacious and slowly filling a
porous
purpose.

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