Spring

Spring,

at random,

paves everything

platinum.

It twists and

bends

the streets

in a knot

of a pretzel,

and heats

the blood.

The hand

drops the pencil.

It’s hot

even at nights,

when the lights

of the street-lamps

collapse

on people’s shoulders

like needles

and bodies smolder.

As the mercury reaches

the triple digits,

the sweat,

in beads and droplets,

covers the forehead

and dampens

the virgin bed

sheets.