Burning Chrome

Why is the day so hot? Why is the night
A burning blister of eternal pain?
The ancient adage that heat comes from light
Is mocked, and nature cuts against the grain
To make the body hate what nutures it:
The sun and all the moisture in the air,
Which bleed into the skin. The sky, unlit,
Continues pumping warmth from everywhere
And all is desolate save for the mug
Which clams along the surface of all things
Oozing like the wetly plodding slug
Whose liquid, when it coats the eagle's wings,
Forbids his flight. Yet in all this I find
Your absence drives the weather from my mind.