Regenerating Sestina

Outside a white sun blisters in digits. Sultry touches

raise viperous canopies that drape the roof above the black-

top where the dealership sign flashes ninety degrees.

Approaching cool, I am consequentially situated. Protected

behind tinted glass, I listen as the clock repeats seven…seven

more weeks to a civilized thermostat inside the passage


way.  He smiles at the possibility, an uncharted passage

outside his familiar. It is the ear-to-ear kind that touches

warmer moments, of muted days like when he was seven

and had caught his first fish. Coveted and luminous black,

he caresses it while the fish gasps inside my memory. Protected

from disappointment, he is also German-built; three degrees


of generational sacrifice echo now where contesting degrees

exceed a hundred. I cool on stationary dimes as he turns a passage

outside my reach. Keeping pace, I watch a group of roofers, protected

by divine mercy, achieve feats beyond minor view. Inside he touches

pedals measuring the performance as fevered hands cross a black

roof, conveying the callousness; I count, 4—3—3—7, seven


miniscule figures reaching for the sun. Affirmation Lands: In seven

minutes, this will be that, and that will be this! Perpetuating degrees

instigated by birth. Cooling, I nest inside chilled seats defeating the black

outside heat, listening as the roofers exact a pitch of work-worn passage.

World-filled papers are arbitrarily presented.  He touches

the pen, endorsing the spoken word; he is qualified—protected.


Still, I cool where he is, surrounded by air-filled bags and protected

by coded keys. I am composed inside my moment where again he is seven,

content and within my reach…Awry now, a roofer sways to touch

the standard, gripping crude scaffolding erected by chartered degrees

outside inequity. I pray for agility, his—mine, and for the laborer—a passage

near solid ground, cresting in homage to a white-hot sun. How the black


paint shines without blistering! Gray skin hardens inside black-

market proverbs; “Arbeit macht frei.” Even as I cool, protected

by dark glasses, I am conscious of this rite, this inevitable passage

approaching with a consistent speed that unites the seven

deadliest, where virtues are propagated by clichéd degrees 

outside geography, estranged by policy while the white sun touches


us all. He turns north to the black shadows; “Si se puede!” echo the seven,

laboring in dreams of protection…and I cool, quietly regenerating by degrees.
Nothing remains of this restless passage, just me, a little cooler to the touch.



Angela Tudor


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