A cut sky of candied ginger,
bleeding toffee-coffee clouds -
morning itself seems injured
by the sugar-torrent, the crowd
of rioting candyfloss that sheets
a bitter skin beneath, salted
with sweat in the rising heat.
Perhaps it's dream dregs: exalted,
seething through the fade, across -
perhaps June's a naïf, baking
us in a careless sun's lemon gloss
that's already cracked and flaking.
Desire breeds thickly in such sweetness,
dulls nagging hints of incompleteness.