The air's blowtorch to the face A glove around the body By midday you want to peel off clothing your skin The mind fogs in its own sauna Too torpid to move toward the hollow of a cooler temperature A door in the wall A shade tree A wilderness springs up even in stasis Pillows collect uneven silences From their banks you look up at the moon's cool wrist You touch a washcloth to your nape If you had a diaphoretic A mint leaf A balm
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.