On the door frame,
white paint hangs like a pout
then peels
in slow slivers.
The afternoon sun nibbles
a little each day.
Nothing is left
except naked wood
and a few curls of paint quivering
beneath the sun's breath.
The door frame cannot resist
the sun's fingers,
cannot say no
to its searching touch
and scorching kisses.
I know this.
I know the paint will swell
and give way,
will split and open.
The sun's caress
is so insistent
and delicious.
As I paint,
I feel the sun
behind me
pulsing, rounding with desire.
I know my bristles
will not stop
its hunger.
