I like the attic,

sitting in the armchair, in --


front of the window.

It is by waiting

that you can see what the world --


has to offer you.

Four Crows fly over
the rear gunner ***** twice as hard
            to keep his mates
Gaps in his Wings
   from history with a Predator

Clammy weather
                       preceding
                 grey summer rainfall

the dog night salivates and commands
                                     and commands
but i am abroad from that
  asleep with my family
  under the open windows
as others stew in the clubs, bars
     and packed terraces

the aggressive dote of the sun
   over the shimmering bleat of the city

muted by a power cut

in the worst oppressive nights
breeding chafer beetles
  bead the trees   outside the hospital
they copulate
in their hundreds of thousands

what a release

my little grazing eye
summer distraction
  the people passing by
    simmering

can’t sleep   in summer night swelter
beetle clicks on its back
the cat (and cause)   watches it 'do the Kafka'

life
distant
  and smudged by impurities

viewed thru aging window

A place of silence
the bed of an exhausted runlet
parched and windless
it can make us remember
the part when we touched
some of us used it as a mirror once
saw in its rippling
the shimmering scales
of fleshed out time
it seemed real
it's frightening to realize it's real
we can recall when the never-ending flow
is exhilarating
alive
unlike other mysterious phenomena
now everything seems irretrievable
though we can still vaguely
hear its voice
in our lives
everyone carries with them
a streamlet
but we never want to be clear
about the existence
and future of the stream bed.