Heat.
My short breath slashes the air
The heat,
slaps frozen wood on my arms.
A wave of soft sand shudders up my legs.
I feel like I can touch it,
the heat.
I feel the groping of hands behind my mind
My eyes are leathery and worn
like crinkled, waxy paper
They roll
as a tongue would across gelatin.
I can feel their sliminess
before the bridge of my nose.
My palms are pressed into shaggy carpets.
I close my fingers into their wrinkles
And all I feel is clay,
squishy and tingling.
The tips of my fingers
are leaden,
and the skin cracks like dessert mud
when I bend them.
My heart drums almost as harshly
as the particles of the summer
heat.