CXXVIII: The Seven Days of August: iv

The fire burns outside. It presses in

against the windows, and the curtains closed.

Its scorching glare is laying wait to pin

the fortuneless that find themselves exposed.

He wakes and makes his way on down the hall

to pour a bit of water from the tap.

But, past the window, dim eyes meet with gall

that’s seared by slivered sunlight through a gap.

If he’s not quick, he’ll wake up far too soon.

Away, back to the safety of his room.

Let’s not encounter sunlight until noon.

Let later hours force me to exhume.

The August Sun wants access to these dreams,

but sheets and covers ward away his beams.