I want to die
with the window open
just a crack,
so I can sense ”the hissing of summer lawns”
or the soughing of wind through the pines

Summer is a suffocating death,
travelled by wasps and bumble bees

The rippling of the pond
cools my forehead
as I slip into a haze,
where faces float flat
before me,
evened out like lids on jars,
expressionless,
no eyes, no mouth, no nose,
finally cast like frisbees
across the Red Square
outside the Lenin mausoleum;

The Black Watch of Canada
lining the dark horizons
with the solid Edinburgh Tattoo conviction
of pipes and drums
and Ye Banks & Braes,

the coast line white with breakers,
the religious looking to their makers