The streets cook in the yeasty sun 
The concrete melting in little mirages 
In the corner of my eye, I see
The vegetation sizzle on the sidewalks
The tops are over-done, burnt
The undersides stick to the earth 
In a grotesque masquerade
Of some now forgotten vital bond 
Roots and soil cling together 
Like dogged carcasses to the bone 
The street dogs lie half dead
Parched tongues loll out now and then 
A sluggish scrape against the grit 
And they escape
Back into the desert caverns of their mouths
I pick my way along the street 
Shimmer-sharpened by the heat
I feel it reach
Hellish fingers through my soles
Heat-divining for my soul
I hurry on but Hades’ torrid lick
Is already on my swollen lips 
His hoary sizzle has found its mark 
My tar-seared feet slow to a crawl
My essence drips out in burns 
Upon oil-scorched temples and brows 
Down my thighs and my neck 
I cannot move another step
I sit on a steaming bench 
To drench the rest of me 
In the quenchless, wrenching sun.