Gnats converge,
condensing above my head.
There's a deafening heat,
while Sweet-Scented Plantain
sends tendrils,
as king cobras dancing to a flute.
It's a muted eve with cock-shut eye,
covering valleys and streams.
And in my sleep
I dream of walking near tracks.
The clickety-clack of the 7:45,
its livened wires
as cicadas chirping,
takes me back.
And when I turn,
a plaintive whistle surrenders,
rendering
some sense of umbrage
this Summer night.