Numbers melt off the clock in this dead heat,
clouds dock between telephone wires
in a stagnant sky to watch the concrete
soften, steam and stick to car tyres.
Even the bluebottles admit defeat,
one last thud against burning glass.
The day dies as red as suburban brick,
midges swirl and swarm in the grass
as stars flicker and clocks begin to tick
towards midnight. A day passed
in non-existance; breaths wait static
to be inhaled again, like ghosts.