the summer storm
swept in from the south
with winds whipping
trees to fury;
a duck’s hiss of hail
pummeling us to safety

what unexpected luck
to find the greyed lean-to
in the middle of the wood
your hair a mess of wet
stuck to your forehead,
your t-shirt clinging
like the old flame
I would soon become

& isn’t it just
like a storm
to suck the air
out of an unwalled
room & leave
you panting &
wanting more than
anyone can give


so damn hot
for early June
so let’s get
away from
concrete &
steel because
there’s only so
much humanity
I can stand
in summer
& the trains &
trams & buses
are filled with
the great unwashed
& that is not to shame
anyone but only
to say work
should not rule
our lives but be
subservient to
our mental space
which is probably
too didactic for
a poem like this
but screw it &
if that pisses you
off write your
own damn poem