I don't like this time of year-
summer's breath down my neck,
chased up sleepless from shorter nights,
all thorns and 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.