Cacophonetics

If the sun is too bright, Searing the fire-hot yellows and sunset reds behind closed lids, And the taste Of warm air stirs too slowly in your lungs And the smell Of nothing but heat and sweat and acid burns in your nose And the feeling Of freedom and summer suffocates in your chest, Sit under the tree Sit under the overhand, drooping with icy-hot metal boards Tacked together with rusted hinges Held up by oxidized poles Giving relief I see the cicadas sing, busybodies And I Hear the boiling air burble and buzz And I Taste the sunlight pouring its intense heat And I Feel the aromas of heavy flowers, wilting in summer air And I Smell the bright, blaring white of the world, Glorifying the peak of summer