Lord in this eternal wheel of summer you will find me sweating; 
regardless of idiotic smile, dry thoughts of penance—I’ll be sweating. 
The bright, clean trickle of beads as they chase the topography of 
skin a momentary cooling; a welcome refreshment of salty sweat. 
Alarming this exocrine discharge; robotically efficient and wholly 
human—a brackish moisture, almost a loyalty by way of sweating. 
These reactions—outside work merciless, running errands in 
the bodega, that pregnancy scare from a misread text; sweaty. 
Anoint the respect that it was in a previous act of love prompting 
the message, the errands, the work—that you accept the sweat. 
What mass to hold but one over fire; the even grill of entrañas
eggplant slices, and morcillas a relaxing lodge; a spiritual sweat. 
This amor fati—necessary and annoying, ceaseless and indefatigable 
in its sporadic fatigue; a perpetuum mobile of flues firing sweatily. 
How we’ve come to accept the gospel of this peninsula’s tip a 
single season climate singularity is a losing battle, a sealed sweatbox. 
Lord, of the few clues that can prove the reality of my humanity; 
these damp circles, the cross’ line down my back, why this sweating?