He sits on a porch-swing dying of heat. The midday sun is merciless. It juts out a golden face to **** To test To accuse.
He strokes the side of his face. There is misery here but not remorse. Sweat runs down the hollow of his neck Traces his neck Falls away from his neck.
He closes his eyes against the day. And more besides.
The sky burns in opposite colors now. His eyelids play the stars and scenes of an afternoon. After a time, blackness swallows the image. He is perfectly closed.
Off past the gate sound cicadas, Locusts, call them here, Like an African choir concealed to chant Concealed to slough away Concealed from commentary.
He hears the door and feels her weight on the swing. The cicadas seem louder. She's come outside to speak with him To speak at him To speak about him.
"I hate you," says a voice but not in words. "I love you too," sounds the other with a tone that says more, Much more besides.
The dusk is usually far more perfidious But not tonight. The weather is still, The sun has nothing more to declaim. She is perfectly closed.