Mortal Songs/ Goodbye Monsoons
The air these days, the rainy season winding down,
Is gravel and hot damp towels.
No pain, they say, no gain.
So. Much to be won in this brazen climate?
In this deathly still, evening hiatus?
This space between hot sun and cool clattering rain.
Someone I admired once said “Fuck the future,
join the round, round dance”.
Something like that.
But it’s easier said than done, having so little
time left to dance any dance at all.
Smoke and Mirrors 