Tone it down.
Shabbat getting ever earlier,
As we count down.
The sun beats down.
Shade yielding no respite,
From the horror.
Such close stickiness from,
The thickest humidity.
Water: confiscated.
The ballpark wants you to have,
Some twelve-dollar beers.
Pits in a bowl.
I ate the last,
Several cherries.
The shrubs wither.
Neighborhood gardens? Stunted.
Such a thirsty lawn.
On the floor.
Such beautiful writing,
And structure,
Recall our darkness.
Chanting echoes without repetition.
אור היום וחם הלילה
הרגו את הפרחים
ודשא ירביצני