snake in the grass

there is a heat

behind my temples

and it roars hard:

summer sun on concrete.

i can sit still

or writhe

or waking dream

but nothing seems

to calm the fire within.

i'd like to think that goats

or owls or wiley things will

extract me from the wreckage

but it seems that i must

battle neck and neck

with the greyness shackled

to my footsteps.

perhaps

tomorrow

will be greener

or the submarine

will open up

beneath

the blue

and

let there be light.

but only the rabbit knows--

his warm fur

countering the coldness

in my breast--

his best

defense against

the reappearance

of frost.