Siesta

Mungy heat now the rain’s gone, asphalt sweating in the dark, this slack torpor, world reeking sepia.

Each of us has time. We are practicing doing nothing except this, no place to go except our mouths. In the park across the street, heat swoon, herons scream delirious in their rookery treetops, big gestures for small things.

Your open-mouthed yawn in among the siesta sheets, mouthful of bicep, long lick of lats, salt-sweet candor of your smile.

The fan passes across the room and back again, metronoming breath between sheets and your broad back, a long longing pressing up against boredom. Pressing harder.

We are everything, even our false faces, the underwear on the floor, the blinds restraining themselves, we are the sideways errors, mistakes, our down-turned mouths.

It’s not sleep, it’s a mouthful of velvet, swallows minutes like water. Time for that later, but no room for it now, air full of this small breath as you snuffle into sleep just below the swelter. I’ll kiss you later, when I can breathe again.