This is an ultrasound of my city.
Summer heat so primal it screams.
Imitation skyscrapers stretch
their square necks toward a sadistic sky.
Boarded windows in front
of a flaking orange building
swallow light and darkness
with the same tight-lipped bite.
The pavement knows the language of feet,
the incessant medley of need,
how I use sunrises and sunsets to tick off
rumbling urgency in the calendar of my stomach.
This afternoon wind is packed
in an attic of clouds.
Gray drizzle hoods the city for days.
Silence trapped in a mulberry’s wet fallen leaves.
Next month that tree will be a naked effigy.
There is no sleight of hand; this is how fall arrives.
September with its powerful cold arms
wrestles to fit into the same skin of space
as summer’s screaming heat
in the birth canal of a fire-colored season.