Licked

The city licks us
with a lavish tongue.
We loll about among
each other like discarded

young – sprung too early
from the womb of some
neglectful mother.
One last slither

of the Summer wraps us
in its wetness and its heat
before the wither of the fall
takes all – before

the slow accumulating
tomb of winter.
Tumid, tinted gold –
bold and warm and visceral –

sensually indiscreet –
we swell and roll like
butter balls along the street –
pulsing lightly to

a humid beat: a season
sneaks – trespasses back
past Summer’s last day’s
barrier to steal us

for the trick of it, to see
if we are sick of it.
We’re not. Today
we like it hot.

.