The Last Violin of Summer

Air that, all summer, was almost empty
Suffocating in a house of words,
Here were the sounds of grass blades
Each fearless flunge foiled by something simple
……as rain……from chloroform clouds……

Washed in sleep at the morning’s edge,
Dreams dredged August desengano
Through a midnight mariachi,
Blent blue melody into muffled trumpet.
Taratantara, see how many share our beds.

Tora! Tora! Tora! No ship is safe in the harbour,
Pearly teardrops blitz the scorched pillow edges.
 
Taratantara, mourning’s native son will only rise for you.