How A Poetry Is Still Written In Summer

after the colors of sunrise to a shade too thick for middling grey,
the elixir of illumination only above blackened clouds sanguine
with the over-ripened regard of pothered fruit, too dense for layers
with vacant space and open aired oxygenation, a moldy sponge
saturate with abysms, expectant erosion, where the personal
attunement is something of a murk in bowls of yesterday served
with faded goblets of cranberry juice that quench the penny gnats
aside rain’s arrival, gummous and below the leanness of light,
when you can’t dominate, not even washed out, taken with a sultan
jigger discomfort that is you as a million of infinitudes
opposite to that one starry alpine path of the ascendant-descendant
to do so, the infinite spread of an oily picturesque setting
of ground valleys wrung on separate laughter, untoward emergence
not wholly muffled, contra rapture, still a squatter in the nocturnal
underbrush or tucked sullen in gills of overly brown fungus
gnawed coarse by tongued goats emboldened with bristled hinds
of fogged hillsides the powerful make quaint with rundown cottages,
to sit there, on the porch, all being shade, sour lemonade, and thunder