The air is still and the heat sits
on my chest heavy as a cat, dozy with purring.
Content to stay while sweat coils under my skin
like bunched sheets. There is a notion
of traffic seeping between the houses.
The suggestion of other life.
Distant rumbles are the furniture of planets
and galaxies dragged across the ceiling of the sky,
re-arranged in some deliberate, foreign astrology
while lightning ciphers silently in my window.
I try to read its Morse shivers
but night’s secrets stay locked to me.
The wind charges next, lashing leaves and flinging
fat, wet pebbles that patter-rattle and pick
at my screen, seeking entrance. Then a deep tearing
across the clouds. And suddenly all that’s left
are melodies dripping through the gutters
and the sigh of summer passing.
– P. Todoroff July 2012