steam sweat from sweet sycamores
and pines and oaks and ash alluring
each eye. passersby and whiskey and rye
and someone sang about such things
when others forgot how to sing.
i think that summer is near. i think that
Her salty beads of afternoon delight are
pressing against the loose pores of
this thick June air. clouds hanging
heavy and heaving with belabored breaths.
fat, dark storm heads pregnant with winds
and rains and clashes and slashes of light
separating earth from air from water from fire.
this Summer’s love lingers longer at
my bedside. tawdry lace sheets fall
graceful against Her breasts…
damp from the humid sounds of Summer
waiting in the wings.