heat-song: the trill of a starlingon an empty morning,the wind like wet paint,the forecast Dionysian: somber, wide-eyed and a little unkempt.stiffening, thickening, fattening air, air a wick that takes up wax, hungers for it, gorges on it.air that passes from the sun barbed missives to the Earthwhich, so goaded, perspires sweetness, sourness, rota bouquet of black-flecked roses for the god of Eros.still.there is love in the splattered flylove in the sticky toe-curling releaselove in the smell of rosemary rubbed between thumb and fingerall those scents of minor violence