Poem for Summer

i.

Under the baseball dusk I drive and become the pink, purple, blue;
remember the order in the sky of my mind,
it's important.

Moving straight and fast in the cool,
air my skin is carbonated.
Like the sweet baseball bleachers cooking under
a yellow elementary sun.

Is it a mood? A surrounding water that is summer that works on me,
like a roller-coaster.
There is nothing concrete about it.