Oleander and rose. The rubble

of earth’s other air—where the hummingbird

flies in the shadow

of the hawk. And through each wall, the opening

earth of August,

like a stone that cracks

this wall of sun.

Mountains. And then the lights

of the town

beyond the mountain. The town that lies

on the other side

of light.

We dream

that we do not dream. We wake

in the hours of sleep

and sleep through the silence

that stands over us. Summer

keeps its promise

by breaking it.