Already the heat pours
in from the East,

the recently-shorn willow
hanging lank over dry grass

I think I’ll have to leave
the windows cracked

as music from the
apartment upstairs

bleeds down, gentle and
at odds with The Clash

song that I am dancing
to —   we both have

our ways of dealing with
setbacks, I’ve learned from

chatting after she’s put
her kids to bed, she

believes if she seeks
she will find, asks,

will receive, while I chant
go straight to hell, 

boys, trusting more
in false bravado,

the prickly stutter
more in line

with the day
breaking outside.