summer nights are like a bad song
chugging out of a battery radio –
the static louder than melody –
like the humid starlit sky
that finds its splendour
damped from premature dew.
The wood of my home pants
a deficient cry as an indolent breeze
knocks it inside its hollowing glass,
and the colours don’t come
together like bright burning light.
Bring me respite of conclusion;
the heat in the air fans the fires
of my skin, while dawn is
an etude hard to erase.
First published in Awen 97, Atlantean Publishing
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