Estival Notus

You run through the night.
Lights reveal you
With arresting orange incandescence.
The Spanish moss runs through trees like lace
Made of barbed wire.
The heat—
It stirs.
It burns.
The air is humid,
Stagnant and Foul.
It chokes
You feel as
The heat slaps you
The rot tangles you in salt marshes
A Southern night
Of running away from the chainsaw cicadas
And manipulative hospitality

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