27 july

and in the heavy dusk living room
it was like drinking solid ice
    as if there could be any other kind
    in any other state
sharp over tongue, inside cheeks
a cold flood down the hatch
dreaming of numbing
but never enough
never the full pitcher
a concentration on condensation
the night that sweats alone
a glass -- a plastic -- gives into the air
bleeding beads to wear through summer nights