In bitumen the heat has a symbol.

the road resists crossing, corneas

and the sun combing the intersection

for glints like a dark bird. the sun has

extracted every black, this quarter

is tropical suburban, every corner

has a petrol station and a psalm.
The black page in exactly the middle

of the book is where we arrived late

at noon with even less determination

when even earth walls couldn’t have

prepared us for the hot blood shock

pasted to the surface like poster

prematurely advertising the very end

of a process that is random anyway.