August seventeen. A remarkably
Bright Day. The swamp cooler malfunctioned.
Noises came out of the ceiling and
They sounded like birds breaking against
metal. But really it was just the motor
burnt up and possessed by a thing
called friction. Ten days before that
our microwave oven stopped sending
signals to frozen meals, toward venus.
There are better ways of heating cold tortillas.
We have a flower powered backup
transmitter. With the windows open,
the doors made into portals to the future,
instruments of winter proceed across the table.