Summer in the Valley

This heat is killing me.
I'm a cold-weather guy
so long up North
that a perfect day is 72
not the 107 of this valley.

A slow pearl of sweat
glides along thin hairs
between my blades
hiking down the highway of nerves.
It stops, sits
in the saddle
until an unbidden shudder
hurtles it into my crack
and it's gone
--assimilated, I guess.

Oh, I wish I hadn't swore or grumped,
gnawing the raw edge of your patience
and hurrying you along and away.

I wish it were Spring
in the orchard
and it was my finger,
my tongue ambling along
your length, your breath
stumbling;
my pulse,
this temperature.