Hands of Heat

"Down through the city palm the hands of heat, massaging the scrapers to a drowsy daze; there they shimmer like summer glasses of hazy lemonade. Gone on the gone breeze, the rustling anarchy of tree-top leaves, and in amongst their corners of the shade, the squirrels lounge like lazy sentries.

"Dribbled away like a leisurely piss, the usual daydreams of the office: the in-tray shuffled to a royal flush; some temp locking the door behind her - smile, wink, bend, spank, purr, hard, moist, bang bang, gush.

"Anything, anything, instead, to laze the feet, chill the head, as down through the city palm the hands of heat."

- from each freckle and down into each bone, there that same drone. Of lethary and of laze, of a man knocked into nothingness, by the hands of the heat haze. And who might even try to resist? (Only I, the well-wintered Fist.)