Sweat

by Felix Jung

Tonight is not extreme, not
the kind of evening some
would call blistering. It’s a slow
melting, a film of warm jelly
enveloping the city.

Around the house, random things
cling to my arms. The paper holds
tightly as if grafted to my wrist, lint
finds its way, mysteriously, to my
neck. To make things worse, every-

thing works in reverse. Masking
tape turns limp and unattractive,
the walls tired of the same drab
posters, day after day after
day. When you were here, our

bodies would attach to one another
easily enough – the joy being each
new method of joining we discovered.
Somewhere else you are sweating
with someone else, clinging in ways

I once believed mine. Each pore produces
and pushes a tiny, perfect droplet which
in turn, binds itself to skin. What forces
rule all bodies? What holds, what stays?
What lubricates, what slips away?