To Hate Summer

To break one thing against
the hard skin of summer;
Stretch on the wicked wench
of spring's twilit wonder.
But once it's passed, the pallid
waves of fetid stank roll,
and scenic concrete land ballads
reach in joy at the heated droll.
But what of us? Of pure land!
Our waste stinks in the solid air.
But if, for once, I did understand
it's soft face and knowing stare...