seeking a crevice for a thought,
                                  a small space removed from clutter
                                    of days that won't stop passing . . .
                                  as yet another deadened summer
                                    hastens by with a fleeting wave
                                      to join the inelegant corpses
                                        of all the last summers--
                                         bloated with hopes they could not fulfill . . .
                                   so many watercolour sunsets
                                     and waves aflame with gold--
                                        an awarness never shared,
                                         another hopeless invitation
                                           marked "return to sender"
                                      yet still not ready for a murky repose,
                                        my senses only heightened by lust
                                          for things that might still be
                                        outside of a dream--
                                            waiting for next summer . . .