Summer, season of hot insomnia,
That much never seems to change at all.
Laying awake in the red desert night,
I shape woods from shadow and wait for fall.

Ten years now gone, and who thought I would miss
The songs of crickets, owls and katydids?
Back then, I would have gathered a hammer,
Smashed them flat as Pinocchio's conscience.

Testing palisades of clocks and yardsticks,
No advent waits for the restive dreamer.
I bandage my tattered, bitten hand and
Turn the smoke rings on my cloven finger.