Flycatcher

Summer Insomnia

The night is corpulent with clouds
and thunderless lightning, heat
mirrored in the weed-eaten yard,

held hostage by the house
whose attic sags, wolf-wool insulation
baking down to dust.

Not the ticks and pops of winter,
but a swollen groan, a plan
to warp and weep wood rotten.

How to sleep in such stagnancy?
Ten fans spin the rooms to loud
breathing, but the earth hurtles

in utter silence toward the violent
grammars of a new day, the east
turning back again to glare.