Close to Nowhen

Look, the celsius degrees

are sneering at our thirst.
They climb through the kitchenware,
they jump into empty glasses.

We swallow
dry minutes.

Our watches smashed,
our wrists bruised,
we let time sneak through
cracked ribs
and douse our worn
beating machines.

Our bodies,
enervated by
the swelter of august, cleave
together, a little bit more.