Cool grey shutters, and the anguished flame
Against them, of jacaranda trees.
Inside your house, squatting in twos and threes,
The guests listen to icy throats of grass.
Against suave panes, the unsuave pain of roses.
Swinging green censers come the summer beetles.
Talk rattles like a poker in a furnace.
Embers dip. Ash lurks within that mouth.
And beyond the secure orchard, with a breath
That tears off blinds like fluttering eyelids
Into your cosy hearts it comes, it comes,
With a thorn of glass and a bowl to catch your blood,
The wind, the inspecting wind.