Yards

On hot nights,

yards echo the mingled patois 

of thumped fences, ignition switches

on gas barbecues, and the dying embers

of childish rage, when the inevitability

of bed is proved, and tiny heels flipper

the thick air.

On these nights,

stars hide from the astronomer

and wicked constellations form

behind gritty city eyes.

I open mine to see yours reddened

perhaps by pollen

in London’s evening air.