Steam comes up from the puddle where maple keys blocked the storm drain during Friday's downburst. The maple has lost its twisting sparkle of leaf gloss and pale underleaf. It hangs limp. The sky is white with smog. Only the fuzzed shadows show the sun is shining. The smog might otherwise be a solid overcast, the clouds are so scumbled by the haze.
Inside, the prints of illuminated manuscripts I cut from a calendar and backed in pasteboard are curling from the wall. One has sagged off its tape and slipped behind the bookcase. Gus lies sprawled on the linoleum, occasionally getting up and flopping down a few steps away, like a sleeper turning the pillow over.
I write this in front of the churning fan. My face stings as if I'd been swimming in the sea. My glasses slip down my nose and the leatherette binding of the journal sticks to my bare legs.
Little writing today; some work on a new verse for "Systems of Knowledge." I had hopes of finishing "Systems" before the the July 1st round of deadlines, but the forecast is for heat and more smog, and I doubt it will get done. It requires sharp eyes and the heat has scumbled me, too. All my edges are dull.
