The Insufferable History of a Place

Sitting on a sun-ripened block colossal. Sitting in the sun again I try to control and strip my clothes, look my best for the Colossus of Rhodes. If I could be satisfied and told of a refresh of feeling and sense: the intimacy of this heat. If I could be battered and rolled and leavened like sourdough- but this is mine alone. The uneventful cold and safety of home is lost to the North – these outside rooms make me sweat and slow this feels nothing like a room, nothing like the bold industry of an air-conditioned hole, and I have never been so wet and on display; this is more the lucid glass of an inveterate fishbowl. Above me, the canopy bails out sun and fights and tries to fill this bloating, oily green: a raging furnace burning fervent with windows, door and roof open to the colder night. But wind cannot displace the intimate sun, the leaves cannot shade, and what shade remains will not guard against the Yard’s invective gaze.