Summer starts strange, thunderstorms hanging like fruit
already rotten on the vine. The last of the light is slowly
draining from the sky like an open wound, open petals
with its nectar exposed and dripping, the air coating
the back of my tongue. And you are the strangest of flowers,
moving through the growing night over azure-slanted rooftops,
your smell still hovering on my pillow. You smell like blues
dancing: sultry heat spiraling from sidewalks into a dimly lit
room, the warmth of your body pressed against mine, relieved
into sudden coolness on the arched nape of your neck. Away,
spun, pulled back again—into your softness, almost musk,
of song ringing low, dark vines and flowers on the verge
of tempest, blue.