Late Summer

Late summer, with its humid tunnels.
Dragonflies and bees in torpor.
Then a week of heavy cloud bands, 
hurricanes churning inland from the sea.
For Rent or For Sale signs going up
in neighborhoods; new coffeeshops opening
while some write cautious notices about
temporary closure. We're nowhere
extraordinary. In fact everything 
is quite commonplace. And yet  
each body, out, moving in the open 
while trying to skirt another,  
is unsettled. Others don't want
to believe anything has changed.
Others mourn hard in confinement.

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