Night is slow.
This year’s summer is ripe
and he spends his time
lounging,
like a soft cat,
over the patio roof.
Dropping mosquitoes into your drinks. He will scrunch away from your loud words
and let them echo through him,
where they will reach a deer
making it bolt and,
hidden under the muggy shimmer of night’s flesh,
will be struck by a brief metallic bumper. But you won’t know this,
and the night won’t mention it.
