He used to ease, stuck-on-sweet, <br />a gentle cooling <br />within the breath of me. <br /> <br />O, how that feeble fly teased, <br /> <br />with each slurp-spoon of luster, <br />he insisted, (a fiend, a fiend!) <br /> <br />How I ready-wrapped in cloth. <br />How I kept in salt. <br /> <br />For each dry whistle of his, of his, of his, <br /> <br />bleeds the dying breath of house, <br />feigned by <br />a trapping of the mouth. <br /> <br />Now, idle in dis-location, <br />I bare this slow contortion at the wheel. <br /> <br />And the sound, <br /> <br />that defensive roar <br />of the cuckolded beast, (a fiend! , a fiend!) <br /> <br />How I flinch from the heat. <br />How I always bend. <br /> <br />Because a hole, is a hole, is a hole, <br /> <br />dispiriting the collapse of the hand.<br /><br />April Michelle Wolverton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cooling/
