wraps my face in a warm cloth
opens my pores and lets the air beneath my skin.
it sends the coded cries of cicadas
burrowing into my brain
making me dream of rich late summer evenings
where fireflies dance in splendor.
summer, where all things are gilded
in the early evenings,
where decrepit, long-lost homes are
splendid mansions and rusted chain-link fences
are antique silver lace
a photographic dream.