God, talk about heat,
The restless night,
To hot to sleep,
To humid to cry,
    	as if each tear could anticipate,
	    the moisture hanging on the air,
	    and rather than bother with that salty conformity,
	    saves itself and stifles rage,
Oh rage like the kamikaze sun,
Burning itself into itself,
Like some blazen romantic,
	    hot on the trail of love,
	    and consuming themselves,
	    in countless circles,
	    and insipid poems,
God, talk about fire,
I could re-define the ravaging,
Adulation for the setting of the sun,
	    when dusk mists still loom,
	    with choking grey sweat,
	    can air sweat?
	    O, love it did tonight...
No gentle relief did the sea shore offer,
Midnight brings a cool white glare,
And the cluttered typing, 
Of a kamikaze poet,
	    no aniticipation necessary,
	    the air sweats and no regrets,
O, God. It was hot today,
The restless night,
	    thoughts abuzz,
	    feverish, crawling out of this conflagrant wretch,
	    do I smell dreams dying?
Or is that just the moon’s sweat?