I don't like this time of year-
summer's breath down my neck,
chased up sleepless from shorter nights, tired and dry,
hands that were shaken by day, the one before
still aching and sore- day breaks to brittle hours,
sunlight strips, sandpaper scratches,
at the corner of an eye
and all the clutter catches
at the throat's back, dust kicked up
from summer's track- day breaks the thirsty flowers.
