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.