The mercury writhes
Creeps silently upward
Possessed by some distant ghost
That goads the winds to stealth:
Dry, desiccated leaves whisper, hiss
As if something must have gone amiss.
And nothing good can come of this
Needle-point heat. Not health
Nor plenty, nor any of the host
Of things that flood the mind as
As sigh escapes: spreads
Slick across the air. This heat
Is lustful; strokes the face
With the raw raking of just-
Cut fingernails. Physics goes bust
As I feel my skin contract
At that touch. Even a cloud's
Grey smile brings no comfort:
If anything, prompts a further
Convectional upheaving
Of an artesian temper provoked
And lashing out: then recoiling,
Then, heavy breathing.
Students often complain about the heat. On a particularly hot afternoon, they could perhaps be coaxed into writing a piece about the weather as means of creative vexation. (Lilin)
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