When summer comes,

and heat bleeds into reluctant night, we'll go down the road and buy $4 wine. Slip dips into shoulder bags, paying for the bread and an apple or two. Slink into alleys with papers and crates, make toast with the flame of a lighter and count the slipshod stars through the glare of the city at night. We'll talk and drink and scrawl on the walls as the world gets warm and liquid blue. If we have to move we'll find some unlocked door, square spirals of piss-smelling stairs and a ledge at the edge of the seventh storey. Watch drunks stumble from strip-clubs and neon panties flash. And when we're quite, quite broke, we'll head down the beach and smoke dune-grass by the sea.