Poems are cruel in the summer
The humid residues of memories put through
The blender of our thoughts
Tinged by the brightly indigestible islands of food
Clinging in high rise settlements
To our plates.
Poems are sweet in the winter
Gently cold, like skin
Of rapidly cooling glasses
Of milky tea perched on verandahs that look forever-outward
Into golden landscapes sobbing themselves
In shimmering dance
Into that ode so universally known and accessible
As the sunset.
In summer
Poetry makes the night chafe
Against the straight lines of her
Bed clothes
In winter
Poetry is the slightly acid damp on pillows
Calling eyes begging for illusion
To the pretentious circus act known
As Sleep.
