Summer in Tempe

Like the cat convinced it can walk on snow
or children determined to dig a swimming pool
with soup spoons,

we persist. It's 119 degrees
with no sign of rain. Everything we do

takes three times half as long as it should,
the way refracted light has glaciers
appear blue.

It's intensity we're after. Listen
for what resists being heard.
In this whitewash-roast our faces

loosen. And an orgy of icy wings
flaps through.
How dare we pray the days longer?

Copyright © 2005 Jennifer Chapis All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission