The first rain
in 7 weeks.
I’m thinking
about the madness
of heat;
how one burnt day
on the west coast
she decided
against me.
The nights now,
a scented hot
of cars
picking-tar
on their tyres,
the mornings
all bastard
with their empty space,
the clock in my head
rude,
waking me
every hour with panic,
the dawn
a fresh weight.
And I think of water,
often.
The waterfalls
we doused our heads
under,
me
holding you naked
in the sepia pool,
your breasts
catching
the last of the sun.
There
in the blue
of the river,
I helped you float,
your ankles
hooked
round the back of my neck,
our bodies
slowly
slipping
into deeper water.