Here in the electric dusk your naked lover tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth. It's beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin, Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover, streaming with hatred in the heat as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones, and such a last light full of spheres and zones. August, you're just an erotic hallucination, just so much feverishly produced kazoo music, are you serious? this large oven impersonating night, this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion, the bogus moon of tenderness and magic you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?
It took me forever to find this sonnet online, but it was worth the search. I first fell in love with it a year ago and really relate to it at the moment.