July on the Cote d’Azur

Baby, it’s hot outside…

Fan. Photo by the author

The shir-shirring fans of the shuttered day — extending waves of rotating silence through a Sunday afternoon…

Emboldened heat seeps through latticed shutters, designed in another century to keep it out.

It’s a heat breach — insidious.

(No respite, neither in the sultry night, nor the warming sea — traditional coolers in an August cannicule.)

Music is Bowie, lights down — it’s dusk at midday in the non- conditioned interior where the air boils us slowly, unknowingly and we puddle under ceiling fans, grateful for the tepid down draught, stagnant still:

Time takes an Iced Tea

Sips it through a straw.

Waits for his mate, the sun

To call it a day — shut the door.

But the sun lingers — raw fire core

so time takes another sip — waits some more…

July Interior. Photo by the author.

O poor Pale Blue Dot, lurching on the axis of human greed –

plates sliding, continents colliding as you try to hold your course –

a delicate balance of Yin and Yang

that we basic primates fail to understand.

Forgive us — we know exactly what we are doing.