In the coolest part of the night
when the air has exhaled all its heat
back toward the vanished sun
and the black stars cap the city,
the pavement leaches upward a memory
like warm milk, curdled,
robbing this hour of its special quiet.
Even the birds seem a little forlorn,
their usual dawn chatter wilting.
We are all conserving what little scrap of cool
this hours affords us, hoarding it against bodies
not yet slick with sweat. Bracing
for the oven of the day to come,
already I can see the vicious squiggles of heat
that will rise, punchline of weather far
too hot too early.
The earth, perhaps still giddy with
what the sun has done all spring,
budding and blooming and fruiting her over,
reaches so hard toward its rays
she may tip.
But with this first scalded hand
she’ll soon start her slow tilt back,
giving up that luxurious abundance
for the salve of unblistered skin.
