Outside, the air smothers
like a down comforter.

Remember Job, that just man,
favored of God, covered with boils.

Whatever I thought about leaves
wasn't large enough.

Crickets. Swallows. Mown
grass scented with mold. Bio-mass.

Black flies mumbling
like a priest over the Eucharist.

It's still day, and I'm trapped
in this refrigerator called a house.

A curse,
a temporary curse that night will ease

with her cool washcloth
and chilly, eternal eyes.

Let me suffer then,
the restless leaves converting

light into sugar,
waiting for the chance to breathe.