Sweltered crafts.

08.04.17 – Cross-breezed

I heard the dance of rime, the sweet clinking and tingling of frost spreading through glass. I watched the fog swirl up on that surface, curved and calling against an invisible wind. Breath blew it back, that white spread shrinking in the heat, stolen like only summer knew how. The moments of ice melted like they were standing in the sun’s path, too quick to turn a boil back. I kept trying to steal it with a kiss, or to take it in touch. We’d be refreshed for an instant before the cackle and groan of the oven turned over again. What structures we had, joined the drink quickly.

Even the ground’s envy was receding. The mad gold was spreading like Midas had tread barefoot across the lawn. Those soft touches were turning dry and brittle and now it was the dead that tried to tickle our feet with their bony fingers. There was a crunch that whispered under-sole and a bit of a wince that escaped along with it. The earth sounded like it had a rattling cough, throat cracking in that dry air and the dust keeping a hard stir in his lungs. The temperature must have kept that weight bearing down, the clouds didn’t move and were burned away before each breakfast.

Shadows were scarce, hunted like a dwindling resource. It was an escape from the amber tint, in those shapes that shifted and crawled away the more you tried to plant yourself in them. It was a temporary respite with a weak relief but we billed for it all the same. We’d lie and try not to stir, wriggling in the dust and dirt to stay behind the blinds. It felt like you were flaking apart too; your skin turned to ash and flittered away one gentle wisp at a time. Summer had come and we were ablating just to stay standing. The sound of cold would arrive slowly at night, until finally we’d do our own secret dance, happy we were unmelted for one more day.