Damnable one hundred 
 and four degrees by day.  
 The thermometer sweats, 
 scorched
 as a stonemason in 
 Wackenhut.  Frigidaire 
 doors, side-by-side, splayed 
 open like an upstairs 
 whore, enticing the heat 
 of her moon-drenched neck.
 Bare heat melts 
 the molecules, she lifts 
 her breasts to the cool 
 dim light and coddles 
 its icy impotence.  Square 
 glass jars of jams
 line the shelf 
 like bric-a-brac.  
 Pouilly Fuisse sleeps 
 on its side in a cold 
 metal rack.  She wishes 
 she could sleep.  She 
 wishes.  
 The motor hums, 
 like the undercurrent of
 her soundless cries.


05 july 01
M Madison