July in the Carpet

The vacuum throat begins to rasp and choke

on something hard that rattles in the tube,

a jagged grit that wasn't there when I awoke,

scraping through the plastic like a cube.

I find the source inside a sneaker's heel,

a tiny pile of grains from that long day,

the funeral where the heat was something real

and everyone had nothing left to say.

I tried to shake the summer from my floor,

but it just hides and waits for me to tread.

I keep on sweeping toward the open door,

but find the ocean under me instead.