The summer air has settled, thick and sweet,
in every pore, and drowned my sluggish thoughts.
Already weak, blood congealed by the heat,
they turned a lazy loop then fell like whiteflies
stilled by age, entombed in melted ashphalt streets
while time falls close like over-ripened fruit
left piled and rotting. Sticky mounds, wet heaps
of hours molding in the sun, and you,
the one for whom my fruit is sweet, away!