Boiled Tar

When I lean against the velvet coolness of the glass door 

at the first entrance of the new apartment, 

sunshine boils like golden tar 

against the reflective blue parasol handle on the blacktop. 

Dishwater silently evaporates. It hisses under the weight 

of the atmosphere. Evergreens sag in northeastern winds 

and lurch onto the parched West. Ice caps soften as blood bleeds 

into the Atlantic Ocean. So much vast 

and limited space. Dust and remains kick up 

onto blinded windshields from the tires 

of mindless drivers. Concrete, crackling. 

Neat gunpowder clouds – shimmering charcoal glistening 

in September’s spark and flames. Is there anything more violent 

than the vinegar and lemon, jagged edged 

magic apex of summer’s end?