113 Degrees by David Chorlton

The heat has folded its wings
and come to rest inside the shadows tangled
in a front yard lantana, holding
to a breath that ends
in orange flower where a few degrees take wing
and hover. It is the hour
sunlight melts
and the truth wears shades
as it passes by the campaign signs
arrayed like a hand of cards
for a game of deception. Last call
before nightfall
for the doves come to peck away late
afternoon, while air conditioned hearts
beat at the pace of Happy hour down
the street at Cactus Jack’s. And the eye
behind the mountain closes.
The moon dissolves
in a glass of darkness.

David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems often reflect his affection for the natural world and the way it occasionally overlaps with cities. He lives near South Mountain, a piece of desert that has been of interest and comfort to him for the past five years.