I don't like this time of year-
summer's breath down my neck,
chased up sleepless from shorter nights,
tired and dry,
hands that were shaken by day,
the one before
still aching and sore-

day breaks to brittle hours-

sunlight strips, sandpaper scratches,
at the corner of an eye
and all the clutter catches
at the throat's back, dust kicked up
from summer's track-

day breaks the thirsty flowers.