She reclines into the corner of a sofa
Like a melancholy Marilyn Monroe –
Can you stand it? – the burning sun I mean.
The wind brings around humidity, and
She just sweats gracefully in her
Broad-rimmed sunglasses and concentric pout.
She dissolves into a burnt precipitation;
Her landscape hazes out the urban sky.
She’s a teardrop peninsula, her land bridge
A rocky desert, breeze a turning page
Across her face. Her voice a rage of
Archipelagos; her mind an
Ambiguity of conflicting instinct.
She declines the April sun for her sweaty June.
She sifts the heat for circular clues
To evading radiant answers.
The pick in her hand carries as many true songs,
Though no one can say
How it came to be this way.