Rattling May

The wind at midnight fuses night with sound and sleep sits up at the window ledge in the night’s apron.

The fan belts the wind to May heat of poems unrealized ,skies dead to their potential cloud.

Come June the hills will get up from stupor down at Indiamap’s feet and then hurl buckets from the sea’s vapor.

The streets will rattle with wind from the hills and cry salt-less tears from the distant seas.

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