This beating, buzzing pulse

all round me,

all lawnmowers in

the city tuned to one

rhythm, or trimmers

set to high

slapping the curb,

every five seconds,

pulse and whine,

or old box A/C

works hard in August

heat, but this

are hundred units

shaking in humid June.

These not loved dog-day

cicadas,

pulse and fade in that

August heat, no, these

beat on, on,

no fade, only pulse

over pulse, over

pulse, on, on,

press and hang above,

those A/C units,

ears ringing,

those thousand mowers,

those red-eyed trimmers,

winged saws,

hum, and pulse, and hum,

and pulse, and hum, and

pulse, condense

humid air to static.

Under rain and gray

up at clouds

cress towers over.

Purple buds bright

against black

trunks walls behind.

Mustard green drips

siliques wet

fingers spread down,

crown flowers closed

in that mist.

Look up at that cress,

seems to grow, higher

than those oaks
behind, crown purple buds,
dark branches dripping
in dim light.