down in the village August comes bundled
 with the Radio Zeta sing-along
  melodies shaped amid vaguely heretical fumes
   of herbally enhanced salamelle alla piastra
      the sausages replete wafting fills the air
        with swirling pork-mementos
           searing top-end sizzle
                   static for an instant filtered out
                           by the two-prong mutra
      the tune itself is stripped of frequencies on its way uphill
     arriving as a glib muffle of sentiment and croon
    and just as this starts to feel real
   the breeze gathers down the valley
  fans it all elsewhere leaving trills    creaks    blips
 each more distant      or closer      than the next
  nightscape's depth of field restored
  severed only by the spooky pulse of landing lights
   and yet the stars seem set flat against the sky
   Venus is both yours and mine
    another day has gone
at any given time      we raise our separate glasses      triangulate and grin

August 2009         Valverde