There's a blanket of heat over the south this week
humidity thick and stifling, a down comforter over your head too long
so heavy you can't move for the weight of yourself,
still we sip hot tea on the balcony in defiance.
You sit across from me, smoking cigarettes in black and looking so ennui,
but break the image with a sudden laugh
as a beetle lands on my thigh and a butterfly perches on the balcony
to watch a spider slide slowly down the drainpipe,
our lives always were something of a cliche.
You say something about how we're communing with nature and shit,
how that beetle and I are so similar,
how we're a way for the cosmos to know itself,
and I scoff because
while Carl Sagan is a genius and all,
I'd rather
there were a way for me to know myself.
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