About Humidity

The fleeciness of the sky emphasised by the zips sketched overhead by stunt pilots.
The, what is it? Sort of radio static or always oscillating feedback 
between guitar pick-up and loudspeaker
mimicked in the twitchings of all spasmodic leaves, that noise,
amplified for the spurtive dance of amphetamine flecked creatures
vellicated in the oak tree.

Teenagers watch their jeans sip anorexic rivers instead of the falconry exhibit
and each evening now, the crow’s feet of sunset are delayed much longer.
It is as if beauticians smeared moisturiser
all over dusk’s flushed, worrying forehead -
or that beaks or talons or tips of the lankiest fern stretched up to inject botox
and stiffen this wrinkling smear of ozone, taut.

Electric pylon after pylon like an orchestra’s worth of music stands, waiting
for a prima donna sunset to flounce in and spread a score composed both for
and about her over their glinting frames. She will hit the high notes as if a rocket vaulting the atmosphere while bellow, at the rock festival,
the tents all jiggle like a kingdom of miniature bouncy castles
inflated with sex, as mosquitoes stencil their blueprints for tornados all over us.