Rachel Richardson: 99 Degrees

Mustn't there be a hole-
somewhere, in all
this heat?
A mouth
of rain that unhinges
its jaw?
             Untamps
the frog's defeated
tongue?
 Bids the dog rise
from his belly in dirt?

Someone, open
the chambers.
Walls
lurch against their own
doors.
The trestle
moans under, under
with the train.

Let the minute hand
unfasten itself.
           Jars
not covet the ground.
Beget the jellies
back into juice.
At least
let the livestock sleep.