tom kwei
Kusadasi
In the squinting distance, windmills spin.
Behind them the sun taunts their stalks. This is a heat.
This is a heat that hides in thighs, settles
in eyelids.
Branched out from the balcony below me, a carpet dries defeated on the
white tiles.
Spiders too scared to move slowly burn in the thick felt.
This is a heat that nudges you awake, that rests a palm on your mouth and
waits.
Up above I watch the pool as the winds begin. Indentations skim like
fingerprints.
Tiny tongues lap the submerged ladder rungs.
This is a heat that makes my skin itch from the inside.
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