That missing ’n’, the

en, the en, an end to something unending.

All around un-ends

yet this summer is so particularly like

knives

under nails.

 

Palm trees un-end, shed dead end fronds and shoot up to the sun

for more withering by broken rays.

Flies buzz automatically in flat air,

once circle en, two, en,

three four five,

a belligerent drill only just sentient, —

almost not alive.