The haze of light from the prison down
the road blurs the stars like smoke. Easy to lose
your way out here, while the sky’s map is lost.
        Already forgotten—
the precise location of the clouds when
night came and the exact shade of sky when light
first entered it.
        Almost over, August,
the time of drought and burned up land, broken
down car and cancer. I sit on the back steps,
the wooden treads rough and splintered under
my thighs, while the half-empty house hums quietly
behind me with its unwashed floors and pile
of unopened letters. The envelopes
slide against each other, threaten to cascade
their unread pleas and entreaties to the floor.
        Above me,
the collection of blurred out but limitless
constellations. Surrounding me,
the day’s lingering heat.