Hot Summers, Killed

The songs we heard under the wooden porch Are still carried in my ears – ringing something awful. Sighing anger is dead when we’re away and the Great, wet blue is hanging above – judging Young and flat – we gently slipped into it And that awful world brightly singed us to a crisp As well as screamed at our small blackness and The futile bites we flung back did not care – stopped When the rain loves to bury old demons how Can you and I weather through the dampness? If you return, I trust you to have those homespun, Childish songs on your lips – open and intact