Evening In Musings

The insects are
Rewriting Tchaikovsky flashing
Sun-grains and
Remembering antiquities. Something had been Here First.

Everything is
Orange. Textured like when
He holds his fists.

There are
Shadows now.

A blackbird claws
Into perching the telephone
Wires,
How: I would like
To have his voice
Thin-wire between
My sweating
Hands.

Night comes between
The blossomed leaves
Light textured like when he holds
His fists as he pushes his sleeves
Up
Against today's heat