Drifting the art of stars above our moon,
behind the blanket clouds and summer heat,
to walk the sticks of life, reveal the moon,
a blistered coin of white in sharp relief,
pricked from the night, the shadows and the sounds,
all bit to twist the buzz of summer’s heat;
the breathless, breathing footsteps on the ground
and echoes warmly damped inside the street.
The lampshade light that scrubs our evening tune,
the music sifting through the summer’s heat,
from windows opened wide and private rooms,
down drifts the scented sound to stain our feet;
the cherry ripened fresh, the wind through wheat.
And music is our mind in summer’s heat.