The night is bound tightly over us,
an aging wool comforter
ripe and suffocating.
We pad a slow circuit
from rag rug to pine boards
around and around
until we pitch dizzy
out the open back door.
The night sky is aflame.
At the back of the house
the basil plants twitch and laugh,
jostle each other.
They toss their silken scarf toward us
and watch our heavy cloak
fall away.
Their garment twirls and wraps,
winds up our nostrils
tender leaves expanding,
the king's breath,
in our sodden lungs.
I like the image of the night as ripe wool: it gives a feel of uncomfortable humidity without using any words that imply dampness.
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