Wednesday, May 22, 2013


Things sweat here. A cold mug
of water, even, leaving its saturnine rings
on polished wood. Birds
perspire. Heaven gets so heavy

with the effort of staying awake that it
rains, and with the exercise of keeping
its eye closed in dank and nightmarish sleep
that it rains.

You nap in the next room, the next house,
the neighboring nation,
some telescoped place,
neck and thighs as cool as polished stone.