Summers have long days,
for you to lay back on the bed and snort emptiness from the hour glass.
The contemplative contour of the street
running into zipped mouths,
gazes that ponder over roof tops
and back
at your limewashed ceiling.
Your drooping spirit like the fan that hangs
between time and dure'e.
Your heart is as old as compost
like soot on the blade ends, darker at the edges and layered in between.
Like the way you think of events of the other day. A morale of collision. Id and ego? That same story?
The fan that hangs a life also hangs a tale.
There are trials. To shape round. To complete.
Your sliced mind, always in transit on a path towards circuitry.
There, like the blades, a whole in their fiercest reverie. Wings stretching to touch each other, to live the life, to enact the story.
Summers are uncannily long. Like the bottomless full of your mind.