It is Sunday and it is hot.

Another of those long summer days,

humidity and haze and the eastern seaboard

is languid, sublime, the all of us hardly moving.

We take to the shade of our high-peeked rooms,

windows fitted with double fans and silver-boxed

air-conditioners that take in wet air and spit it back

crisp and cool: breathable, bearable.

It is Sunday and it is hot.

We are listening to Bob Dylan and watching

Eat the Document and wishing we could know

for just one moment what it is to be him, though

I imagine it is like being anybody, only not quite.

It is Sunday and it is hot.

I put on my dark Ray Bans, the same ones as Dylan,

the ones the doctor tells me tells me I can even wear

indoors because I am epileptic and they serve a medical purpose

and therefore are not queer, by this I mean, totally affected.

It is Sunday and it is hot.

We are close, entwined, breathing in

the scent of skin and I know this is how

it begins, each of us waiting for the second-hand

tic when it is right to make the first move,

to throw the first hallowed kiss.

It is Sunday and it is hot.

We make love and I hit all the high notes

while, otherwise, the neighborhood is silent

and in this moment now we have each other.

We are in love: we are married and it is good.

It is Sunday, not Monday.

Let’s not think of morning yet.

It is Sunday it is hot.

I have all that I need.