A short poem at the end of a long trip.
At 40 degrees Celsius memories rise like sweat on
The skin of my mind – but not heavy – they dry in the wind
The roads are wide enough to let the past drop away and
Drinking alone you find you remember little but
Smoke and shadows, the flickering of crazy eyes
The dying Texan summer is redolent with music and
The sound of dancing feet. Sad ballads on a Sunday afternoon
Make sweet poems of these late August days –
A coda on a time sliced from time by the wings of planes.
Ghosts and ashes 