On Monday morning
when I open
the door and let
only a little
surge
of sunlight into my apartment,
when I bear its searing
omnipresence before
my car burns across
the heated rock,
when the sun has raised out
of the dust like a God
giving birth to itself,
when it dies like a false religion,
and all the suit-clad
prophets that healed the stock
market and with a singe pulled
with tongs from the stove purified
the “why” I forgot
to wipe off, when they
too are as cold as dirt,
I do not think of you.
But in the birth and death
of heat, even
in its memorial, are remnants
held in a body,
in your body, multiplied by
touch, body to body.