Next day the burn of high summer.
I was dewy when the thundering beak,
scabby heartstopping feathers
plunged through a full-face print of Malcolm X
sabotaging the props of the room.
Next day the burn of high summer.
At rush hour a bloated daddy longlegs
belly flopped onto the valance
dancing like a paralytic
across the sunbaked nodes of lino.
Next day the burn of high summer.
A nocturnal bogeyman of rotten gales
came and went, began again,
plunked open the sneck
unfolding the endless passage.
Next day the burn of high summer.