POETRY

Waking to the sound of cicadas
Wrapped in the sweaty tulle of mid-summer
Every movement lingers: becomes sensual
The mind in a haze refuses to think: goes on strike

Against this back drop of blue so blue
The sunny slow-motion of long days
Paces shamelessly in public parade
Flaunting its slowness with pride

The sun bright and hot
Seeps into darkened skin
Happily deflating any attempt at seriousness
Only lethargic pleasures make sense:

Touch of dry lips to cold glass
Caress of cool clear water against dipping body
Scent of chlorine mixed with eucalyptus and pine
Taste of melons turned sweet by the sun

Here we replace hatred with indifference
And love with fun.