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