The Hot Hours

6.7.15

Viterbo

Reduced to tiny thirsty dunes
raised red where somehow painless
they punctured.
Zanzare, aragne, climbers
from little dirt structures I disturbed
to tug lamb's-quarters from spiral zucchini.
        Chugging resounds from the cistern.
Between water, hot briefly from pipes in sun
weaning fresh sluices of dirt and some blood
from my legs, I want it to pound.

Left clean to drape indoors and wait,
white curtains drawn as seams to stay
the heat, all afternoon.  My fingers
hover over spots to gnaw.
My ankles lose their skin.