Porch light, topaz, tangerine,
beaming through the dusk—
dim through the swirling mosquitoes.
Humming electricity: heat lightning,
lightning crackling,
must be perpetual motion.
Screen door closes on July;
air hangs heavy, heavy.
This book will close, will close forever.
Time recalls only the cover,
but you are pressed between the pages,
pressed between the pages.
Deep pulse in a flat vibration.
There’s a buzzing at the window.
There’s a rustle in the leaves.
There’s a ticking like an echo,
ticking,
pricking shivers up your sleeves.
There’s a buzzing at the window.
There’s a pounding in your head.
There’s a clicking like a clockwork,
clicking,
clicking, filling you with dread.
There’s a buzzing at the window.
There’s a hissing in the mine.
There’s a chiming in the tower,
chiming,
climbing, clanging up your spine.
Strange dream
of a wheel that’s spinning—
round, round, round no centre.
Cold, cold, there’s a wheel
that’s spinning round—
come to take the summer,
take the summer.
Must be perpetual motion...
