zafusy

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.

Christopher Barnes

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