Lawrence Hall
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
High-Pressure Dome in a Coffee Cup
Blue light - an illusion of
comfort at dawn
The streaky windows frame a
winter day
Illusions and delusions lying
to us
For this is July, when hopes
wither and die
The sun’s tentacles ripple
across the fields
One of them slithers to your
window and leers
Mocking the fantasies of your
air-conditioned sleep
Beckoning you outside: come
and be fried
The sun’s hot streakings,
mortals seeking, they roam
As summer’s slithering death:
a high-pressure dome
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