“The eventual heat death of the universe that scientists love to talk about is already well underway…”–Don DeLillo,

White Noise
At the bottom of the hill
where I stand a commune
has built its shelter
on the banks of a frozen river

it is July

and the heat sends shimmers
churning from the ice
oppressive vapor
that stifles our thoughts
our sex

you stand next to me
look towards the side
of the shelter
a man from the commune
is dancing in the tall tall grass
waves his hands
in an obscure ritual of desire

I touch your hand
slick with sweat and need
pull you into the grass
expose your bronzed
Indian skin, salty-wet
beads of lustre
on your breasts, belly
I spread them with my lips

the communist dances
dances on as we take
our pleasure in the heat of July
hot bodies made hotter
in relentless sun

the communist dances
smiles as you cry
in the orgasm the French
call “la petite mort”, the little death

I prefer the little heat

still nude, you stroll
to the river, small
breasts bob their heads
twin monks in prayer
I follow you, puzzled
wordless

the communist still smiling
watches also wordless

you lower your slimness
onto the river
which melts at your touch
flows over you
does the water steam
or do you? I cannot tell
I sit on the bank
dangle my legs

the communist’s
ragged hair flutters
in a new-sprung breeze
he twirls once more
walks to the bank
shucks black suitcoat
and sits next to me
places a stalk of grass
between his lips
gestures to your form
in the river
eyes closed
nipples atop the surface
thighs just visible beneath
I nod

your beauty
the heat
the congress of sexuality
the dance
the heat
the sweat
the love
the jacket
the heat

scientists say
that the Earth
is hotter
than it used to be
but then you never believed
stories in supermarket
tabloids

It is July
and the communist is smiling

I watch you
in the water

surrounded
by shimmer of heat

It is July
and the communist is smiling