To say we’re in a heat wave means a break
is coming sometime. I don’t see a break:
no rain, not even clouds all month, just birds
against a sky so blue that it’s absurd,
a kind of parody of blue written
in blue ink on blue paper because crayon
would melt before we ever got the joke.
Which is on us. Of course it is. Like guns,
or like the Dow at twenty-one thousand
while wages stay flatlined….Let’s call the sun
money and be rich as hell, how’s that?—
go around with pockets full of fire,
paying for things with all this surplus heat.
Unless you think that we already are.
About the Author
Rob Carney is the author of four previous books of poems, most recently, 88 Maps (Lost Horse Press, 2015)—which was named a finalist for the Washington State Book Award—as well as the forthcoming collection The Book of Sharks (Black Lawrence Press). In 2014, Carney received the Robinson Jeffers/Tor House Foundation Award for Poetry. His work has appeared in Cave Wall, Columbia Journal, Hobart, Sugar House Review, and many others, and he writes a regularly featured series called “Old Roads, New Stories” for Terrain: A Journal of the Built and Natural Environments. Carney lives in Salt Lake City.