Gyroscope Review 16-3 | Page 14

JULY NIGHT WITH CRICKETS by Robert Ford Heat is supposed to rise, but in the gnawed, unslept hours of horse latitude stillness, I feel it pressing down instead like a steam iron, flattening the dark crumpled collar of the night, squeezing out the comfortable creases, making tiny bubbles simmer deliriously in the blood. In the hall of leaves beyond the mosquito screen, a hundred thousand invisible percussionists rehearse their moment of moonstruck definition, announcing themselves in ascending rattles of friction, a clamour of legs and feet, answering the imprinted call. We lie mutely, speckled with sweat, between the top sheet of an unfamiliar bed and a drunken ceiling fan, its blades flicking their way through uneven circles. Before they even arrive, I can feel your fingertips reaching out to bridge the narrow space separating us. Gyroscope Review - !4