These are the dog days

These are the dog days,
the serpent 
coiled around 
the branch days,

the dumb-mute 
streets of sweaty, 
malodorous 
cabaret lovers 
copulating 
on the internet days,

the oranges
shining brightly 
in the pool days,

the moon 
losing its bell days.

These modern 
days by which poets 
curse and embrace 
dignity, without 
the exception 
of the wind,
are bastards.