In The Heat Of The Night

Another dribble of fluid
runs down the spine of the book,
soaks up the last heat from the day -
the humid darkness of it -
the reader drowsy with regret.

Turns a leaf, carefully;
imprints of fingertips
in sweat stains at the corner
to mark progress - so turgid
in the presence of the moths.

It's a supine night
with curtains limp at the windows,
and shadows stain the glass
to darkness and obscurity.
Occasional headlights flare

picking out diseased lovers
arguing as weakly as leaves
hanging from dead branches of dead trees -
pathetic and curious,
lifeless and brittle in the heat.

Sucked clean of activity,
time to lie down on the damp bed.
Sleep will not come tonight,
so airless, only the dreams arrive
and mock at his dank impotence.