As I recline in this screened back porch,
three moths thump against the grid past dusk.
After weeks of baked dust,
moisture touches my cheek
and curls a paperback on the chair.
Distant rumblings never arrive.
A spittle of rain brushes by.
Off with the light.
The porch is dark as metro soot.
Drenched with pitch,
these eyes—insatiable jewels—are blind
in a pavilion of silence.