Warm air, red sky, cool stone beneath me.

I whisper to mosquitoes, You’re unwelcome

in my wine. Some, surely drunk, I scoop out

with grateful fingers. Others, I drink, as surely

as I raise my glass to setting August suns. 

At least they go down smooth this somewhat violent afternoon

at the edge of proper summer and the soon-to-be past.

Drunk on each other

at least we go down smooth.