From the Fishouse

"Mama, don't let the sun bite me
Sun bite me"
she cries and shields her eyes
with innocent arms
and the sun
the sun stares
with the third eye of a madman
and the land lies low to the ground

Errant squirrels, dogs, and cats who
mis-
calculated stiffen and bloat
on the highway
mid-afternoon

"Mama, clouds hide"
clouds disperse, daughter
thieves thinned out to cigarette smoke
caught in the grim heat
of their conspiracy
they vanish
in dust
and chickweed
the sun, though,
the sun has not moved