Decades ago while in Wilmington, lived with my cousin and no AC. Hence:
Sweat oozes down my chest,
fills my navel,
trickles down hairy calves
into steamy sheets as I read
against a soggy pillow.
Mist chokes the air.
Cicadas whir. I can hardly bear
this sagging ceiling, dripping overhead.
Outside is the wild—
humidity drains on beaded grass;
teems of mosquitoes roar;
trees are dark sentinels in misty yards.
A blackbird sprays its song on the screen.
You can hear sweat seeping
on a glass of iced tea,
through dank walls, puddled floors,
pouring on slippery skin.
Night wrings dark drops,
drowns bed light in this muggy room.
Only a cool breeze can sop
sweat of this draining night.