When Summer Freezes...

When summer freezes, breezes
blowing back limbs stuck in positions
of torment (people noted, reasons
being Divinity's non-impositions
on the world), I look out my window
on the stout-bodied river, think again
of John Milton, Satan's banal crescendo
for those older; the individual's friend
who articulates how patience works,
not the stinky-hearted perv who most
feels the strictures of isolation, perks
of indignant fury. Milton sails by, lost
& found as usual, not Satan or God,
Human; capitalized, in fact, by his own rhapsodic lot.