Your voice has a sweetness like morning dew.

You could siphon all the verses into
a harmony.

And finally, call yourself King
of the reckless whisperers whose hush prickles
of the sand with its heavens and blankets of misplaced heat.

July rattled my bones like the melancholy of a child’s lullaby.

I will go on to softly caw for Isaac Brock’s sharp noises and heavy beats.

On a pier somewhere near Brooklyn
sweetness is never a good thing
when it wears invisible things
and counts the eggs before they’re things.

The arbiter of squalor is yelling out to ­deafness.

Next time I will listen to him
and not your morning dew –
it falls too swiftly
to the soil.