Heat

Indian summer,
heat pressing down on the world.
Still sky, still air. Obsessions and
jackdaws calling and the sun
slipping through the curtains.

And even when the sun slips
away the heat smothers still.
     Thank god they’re asleep, we say.
     Thank god they’re asleep.
Their breathing after dark in the thick air,
bodies naked, curled like Inca mummies.
Their skin stifled by sweat.
My hands won’t stroke.
Three children, Russian dolls, equalled in sleep.
We’re not the only ones who were fools.

Peace settles in this afterlife.
The television is a crackle, the only thing that moves.
We try to glean a draught through windows agape.
We try to glean a harvest from the dark.