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I watched the ice die on the hot cement,
an entity with a special doom,
where water is much like rare blood,
at the mercy of July’s curse.
The stroll is over a white surface. It is
Keats in the morning on a walking tour,
his health, the measure of his morning, his eyes,
rounded metaphors for the tear-stained heart.
Cubes, like torsos, will disappear. Under
summer’s treachery, life becomes water
on pavements, on streetwise steps, on the
faces of grifters, throwbacks from
the dusty days. Depression era once again:
summer’s test on the limp backs of men.
Lamont Palmer
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