Come What May
It’s
forty-two in the shade
and
nerves fray
on the
hot highway
the
horns, the squealing tires
heat
waves like microwaves
float
from the burning asphalt
the
sand parched
the
rocks like irons
can fry
an egg
everything getting cooked
under
the burning sun
Sounds like a nice day in the country -- if the country is Abu Dhabi, that is. Even the title evokes the fierce fatalism of the region, and the lines of the poem burn it into being.
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