The air-conditioners bob on cushion’d water
sleeping along cats that want out. Puck
cries to the window above, expecting an answer,

expecting the pane to slide down and humidity
to dim the tidiness of this diligent cave.
No more confidence than is absolutely neccessary:

Suns heat the skin, the skin heats the soul, the soul
can’t be broken on such thin ice. Stabs.
That window’s open all the time.