The Saturated Month

Manhattan takes the heat for –

bears the brunt of – losing light;
its heavy sun descends significantly
earlier than city night had grown

accustomed to in June – more sigh
than in July; though some odd
poignant tenderness revs up
enormous warmth in compensation –

in relation to the high anticipation
felt in blood and bone unconsciously
that everything is coming to
an end again – or to the bend

upon the bend upon the rendering
of rhythmic change: there is no logic
in the reason of a season: merely
repetition of the strange. Today

we won’t turn on the air conditioner:
we’ll hug each other, rub each
other till we’re stuporously hotter
than we ought to be, in sweet defeat,

and sleepy – deeply in another
cadenced pause – so many in the year! –
to cause us to be just as near
as we can stand to August.






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