A Particularly Hot Afternoon (Aaron Maniam)

The mercury writhes
Creeps silently upward
Possessed by some distant ghost

That goads the winds to stealth:
Dry, desiccated leaves whisper, hiss
As if something must have gone amiss.

And nothing good can come of this
Needle-point heat. Not health
Nor plenty, nor any of the host

Of things that flood the mind as
As sigh escapes: spreads
Slick across the air. This heat

Is lustful; strokes the face
With the raw raking of just-
Cut fingernails. Physics goes bust

As I feel my skin contract
At that touch. Even a cloud's
Grey smile brings no comfort:

If anything, prompts a further
Convectional upheaving
Of an artesian temper provoked
And lashing out: then recoiling,
Then, heavy breathing.