Humidity

City summers will make you plead,
wipe away the act weighing down
your skin. Wait for the silk overhead
to rip open and pour its torrents
in threads suspended in midair
before predictable crash corrupts
the concrete with puddles. This heat
clings to your skin harder and closer
than a lover’s funk creeping out
of still-unwashed skin. You beg
for the whisper of this water. Dream
of the patter cooling like an open
refrigerator or icy crust of snowflake,
the rapid death of frost on your cheek
in ice-glazed months when you wish
for heat like some sort of lost savior.