A little bit of sunlight dribbles down his chin as he stands mouth gaping eyes serenely shut against the harrowing heat. Everyone else is inside so the man can take his time there. He watches the heat waves over the black top boil and converge and he wonders how long he could go without water before being burned up. And then all at once he's silent and still and savoring the heavens. There is a slow recollection of figures and dates, but he cannot read them. He can only see the nape of her neck as she laid down next to him last night. Does her name matter at all. He just doesn't recall the rest. Not even her eyes. Those vicious, revelling stems of chaos. And as August creeps down into the city, he knows it's going to be hot and that time might just lay low today. He has time, he has time.

back to poems