In almost sung summer along street sweat, a miasma, jangle
there’s an odour out of soft places, armpits of buildings
the city groin. I walk across lines at my usual angle.
We’re looking towards the wind where it was last night, the traces
of that flute that’s returned, a vernal breath, the drum clouds
a not quite moon-shaved spread, each garden waved up to windows.
I laid out my eyes under cover, a lamplit blue shroud
air knocks on a dawn story, love and buildings in unidentified country.

Now at sultry corners, I relieve my breath of a second’s water.
Urgent, that crow calls home after summer rain, greener than ordinary
my minerals are drawn away, drip from me, my precious metals
sucked into cloth, as each drop has no end in the stream that passes
each door, last night’s spit and perfume smells invisible
everything is suspension, at crossings and my opening of the glass.


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