a sonnet for melting into the pavement

The air is dead and you’re sinking, dragging 

yourself, leaving behind entrails in trails,

Sinking far down, down, until you’re

one with the pavement and tar.

A perennial, sleeping embrace.

It’s much too hot, until it’s burning, 

But you’re down to just your chest now,

So, forward, you claw and claw and claw.

Wondering what happened to the sound.

It should be loud and screaming and hissing

But there’s nothing. And you wonder if  

you don’t mind it that way.

Something will bloom from this. 

A sigh exhales whatever was inside all along.