The day hangs on too
long. The silver line of the sun
stretches across the black
mountain of rooftops,
spilling into a broken span
of green lawns and alleyways.
The dying squirrel in the road
dreams of the anarchy of night,
his relationship to truth shifting
with each passerby. Three lone
crickets, confused and tense, no
one to witness their scalloped legs
breaking, churn among the rot
of old men snoring-so goes
the sadness of summer.
The blue-gray cocoon,
hung with a torrent of black
crows, cascades over freshly
painted balconies, where
mothers and fathers leave
their bedrooms to cast
long shadows over their own
children, sullen and strange.
