The Heat

The Heat

Sun hot on my eyelids and face
and then, relief, a burner switched off

means a pile of water vapor
is sliding across its floor in the sky.

As the 45th story in the building
knows little of the lobby, for they will

never meet, that is the cloud up there,
me down here. And above it all,

the sun, engulfed in its own burning,
nothing on its schedule except bash bash

bashing all protons into one another,
a forcing together of all its own pieces.