Perspiration cools

The breathless days have drawn to a close and the Gods have deigned to dispatch a breeze to my window.  The wind traps me in an ever moving envelope of air.  I must not move, the wind shall pout its face away from me.  I must let my body close itself and my mind will dance out of it and in the exhalation-breath that is mine andd the Gods’ it will strain the Earth, rising and falling as it draws an uneven circle in space, leaving imprints on the universe.  There is no window on the opposite side of the room and I realize I cannot blow out, the sky come in to meet my eyes; the air blows towards me for its appointment with my skin.  I cannot leave to meet the world, for it rushes headlong towards me.

To lie on my window in a breezy summer afternoon is to enter the sweet hell  of memory