Till eleven o’clock you are perfumed in the sweat you were born with. At five, you stink of the sweat you deserve. No relief from the heat. Just the melting of external barriers. A slow leak has the sun’s white hot salinity spilling into the horizon’s water table. Coloured dusts of landscape scatter under the wind’s rug-beater. Sounds seem a sepia enactment of summer’s past the slow bark of an axe the crackly dial tone of a chainsaw a suburb away. A blowfly in the kitchen stops and starts too…
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