There ain't no sloughs in the city;
except, perhaps, under the viaducts.
Mounds of greying comforters, rising and falling.
Breathing in the exhaust. There ain't no sloughs
in the city, except maybe there, where horns
echo. Bodies left with nothing but summer, bleary
(more)
heat. Bodies, hopeless. Mired. Stuck.
There ain't no sloughs in the city;
except, perhaps, those tiny patches of green,
man made. They turn brown after the first rainstorm
of the summer. But even still, they don't compare to
to the pot holes that catch water. Prismatic
with car oil, dripped and mixing. Rainbowed and
shimmering.
There ain't no sloughs in the city,
except, perhaps, in all those fenced up parks.
Or inside the Naturarium, when the garden hose
has been left on.
There ain't no sloughs in the city.
We got nowhere to sink, to lay stuck
except maybe in the freshly laid tar of city expansion.
New majors and new plans.
concrete water lines, newly paved roads.
We ain't got no sloughs in the city except,
maybe, there: where you can feel the world sink,
under your feet. At the crosswalk,
where I stand. Where I'm waiting
You can feel it sink under your weight,
warm and , mutable. Plastic through
the mid-day, summer heat.
There ain't no sloughs in the city,
except the land sunk and hollow, muffy
in its artificiality. Broken bottles,
reflecting light from within their embeddedness
within the pavement.
There ain't no sloughs in the city. No where
to get mired, except, perhaps your mind.
As it sits, silent except for the spinning of the
box fan. Hot air breeze does nothing.
There ain't no sloughs in the city, except here.
At this table. Warm and exhausted. Tasting salt,
sweat on my lips. I'm mired here, my dear, this is my slough.
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