Fruit Flies

Push back the glass and,
let in the bugs,
that sweet smell of washing down tarmac,
put on fast shoes and,
run wheels round new roofs,
VOCs encrusting my arm hairs,
And it’s often sour,
when the light turns in,
there’s an August shower,
that’s unwinding
Foxtails in the grass and,
fruit flies on fruit,
the Catskills still orange in Winter,
Air thick, cornflour,
clouds swell with dew and,
backstroke with no arms,
sandstorms jumpstarts,
with no fuel roll through,



And it’s often sour,
when the light turns in,
there’s an August shower,
that’s unwinding
To and fro gorge my ears,
one thing to another forget the season,
To and fro gorge my ears,
one thing to another forget the reason,
To and fro gorge my ears,
one thing to another forget the season,
To and fro gorge my ears,
one thing to another forget the reason,
And it’s often sour,
when the light turns in,
there’s an August shower,
that’s unwinding