Hot air

		The poems as wild grass - they never ask about proper time to grow, they come at dawn or in dusk, or in midday for show. They're dropping down from the void, distract the schedule, the routine, don't even try to run, avoid - all meetings are ruined. They're hanging on the door as chimes and teasing from behind, there's no escape from crazy rhymes and overwhelmed mind... With inspirational delight I rise aloft to thermostat, and see desired point line has crawled to 'very hot'...