Late Summer Things Leave or Rot

By Frankie Mace




Floodlights on a back road observant of vigilance


Murmurless but for the almonds growing by the wall // topophobic


Careering beetles assault Oleaceae branches



Screen doors dustily // dusk hot and orange speaks for us


Floodlit by a porch light filled with the appearance of things


The stars weakly compete // longing chews the air it has substance



On a back road by the wall a many-scented memory graft


Yellow hills recede as arms murmurless


In a white box house separation spasms // brown limbs longly drape tangentially



Sparse lacerations inarticulating rapture


Chemically pool-blue child shriek leaps // kitchen fed olives


Chicken innards bloody flies-haunted slap flat stone floor cat laps



Here is the locale of convalescence


Reassembling in the heat // breaking almond shells with a found rock


Whirring grey Discman wires connect us nose to nose // brown arms white nails



Poet’s jasmine wreathed fecundity flavoured stickily with loss


Accumulated debris of terracotta tiles // ants liquescently uncanny weave a sun lounger


Dusk hot and orange // speaks for us



Slick smiling melon slices cut for a pool-blue brown child


Moorish blankets rough faced day beds dark cornered


Here is the locale of convalescence // four rooms afternoon quieted



Rough built stone walls // cool hot air currents soporifically muted


Old car recedes crunch skids the gravellish back road


Not a crash but a dismantling centre first // cicadas in the dust hills



Behind the box house by the wall amid the almonds and olives.


Pain is kept there as a memory // murmurless

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