29 November 2008

when mosquitoes come

at sunset when mosquitoes come to play
their urgent buzzing games of sucking blood
the darkness comes upon us like a flood
we long for cleansing light of the next day
behind the net there is not much to say
outside the frogs are croaking in the mud
a misplaced word falls now with heavy thud
this is the season when thought goes astray
smoke blends with fog in the short humid night
as all our measures pause within the heat
not one is certain and they all seem wrong
in their slow circle all the clouds move right
over the mountains to a steady beat
and deep within each heart there is a song

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