Summer comes in sticky
blasts of sax,
uneasy chord progressions
negotiations of stride
in a loose limbed shadow dance
of outstretched arms
on railroad tracks.
Sweat on a rooftop
cold drink in hand,
lights below
in pickle jars,
fading dance of fireflies.
Curl up within myself,
behind my eyes
listening to crickets sing
something of the fragile
on a frame of sunrise
with colors
no one else has seen.
And I conjure up a stillness
on which to stand
amongst shaded Monet sentinels
gurgling youth.
At the melting point
of asphalt.
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