TOO HOT HEAT:

Woodpeckers punch holes in telegraph poles causing them to
burst into flames in the heat of an Essex Summer visited
upon these fields too early, so that is swells my fingers
& turns my thoughts to sludge, head aching, thinking cool
thoughts so as not to over-heat, nailing big sheets of
cardboard to the walls of the painting studio ready for
the marks I’ve been sucking up on tour. The night hums
with hot tin heat, black cats pull back as I walk, a
lone wolf skulks in the hawthorn, retreating from the idiot
pheasant as it doodles circles in the road blissfully unaware
of the teeth running away from the sound of footfall.

(K)