Jan Wiezorek

Holy Heat

Moles have stolen pattern
from the red bricks, birdbath
askew. I turned toward you,
a leg, a shoulder, so you
and me, as much as pattern,
as socks folded, coffee pot
cleaned, raw truth muscling
the bricks, hot to touch,
red-faced, alive like heat.
If I’ve prayed for this,
let it cool me. Settling in,
to nothingness: going
inside to place underwear
in the night drawer, cool
as birdbath.