nettles
this dust summer
is a fire
and you drawl your lithe moves
in sweet sweat and perfume
the sugar plume
dark tobacco
amber potency
thirsty against the screen

your eyes feasting beyond the
bushfields with their drooping
limbs full of heat

stirring in your weary
glass your rancinette
purse up your lips
about the pink straw
the lashes flickering
like the black mascara
line of a storm

too far to whet the
land in agony

stare into the glitter
past the junked ghost
wrecks
with their dead headlights
one heel grounded
one foot on point
stirring the thin soil
drifting in with the
night winds
on old oiled floors

in the dish stacks
your glass leans
your radio drifting
down from the room

your gloss smudged
fresh rose
the dark sweet taste