summer nights
(is I thine
or I is yours?

wet damp you
wield well
and supper me

toward bed as
t’where I to be
in cocoon fell fed)

now, where moths do scurry o’er patterns of air
and small mice trace urine like they’s born yesterday
I’m alive in bristled fog of dew amazed to stars
as if I’s a man on the moon not dead t’night

though who closed flowers & prickled washing
on forgotten lines under breezes blew forward?
help! the moon says, fighting cloud and warmth
just to make n’appearance in this ruin

And die I here in the summertime that I’s meant
to with bats surrounding head twinkling cosmos
with high hells they shrieked with fell out stars
they blinked and with unlocked doors they creaked
in the summertime yes, the ripe nights of ours out.