It rains in the afternoon in August
In the mountains
Because that is what it does
Simple.
A line follow to an end point
Waves caress a shore
Rivers empty into the ocean
Leaves fall
Planets circle
Plants grow
I tap off ashes from my cigarette on the porch rail
They trickle to the wet grass: glistening
Sun scatters glassy on the screen behind the window
She doesn't think about you
I don't think about you
People slam screen doors
It's August
The thermometer reads ninety-four.
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