Domus

June—not even rounding the cusp of summer; yet heat
pours out as if from a cauldron on every surface.

And the heat of bodies building as a fire 
in every city, refusing to be staunched. 

These last few months, we raised our windows 
at sundown to salute those among us whose work

takes them closest to the edge of the fire.
Each night we hear the distant sound of choppers

circling overhead, and see the arcs thrown by
their beams. Only in the fitful pause of sleep 

does the day's sadness distill into a sort of quiet
blue egg. Every wing in it, every breakable bone.