Night in Arizona Poem by Sarah Howe

The last of the sheet I shuffle off an ankle -
a sound like the spilling of sand
from shovel and the night air blurs

for a second with its footfall.
Our entwined shape a word in the dark.
On my forehead and cheek

each flourishing
charge of your breathing
is a moment's reprieve. Heat

in this place goes deeper than sleep,
wraps everything, increases sheen -
the forearm weighing your flank

as, dreaming, you turn from me,
curlicues slick on the backs
of thighs, my hand at your neck

and eyes aware of several kinds of dark
struggling to perfect themselves
- the hidden chair, the bouquet of our clothes

the razory arms of a juniper rattling crazily
at the edge of that endless reddening haze -
glad we move on to the city at dawn.