The year has reached the top of the curve
and is on the descent in fits and starts,
unwilling to relinquish the stifling heat. The sun
bows to the inevitable with bad grace,
with a rolling of drums, hurling storm after storm,
crackling lightning through the night,
breaking the darkness into angry fragments.
But it goes, fades, I can feel it in the back
of the air, like the cool light in the eyes,
when the hot tongue promises this is not goodbye.