[We're deep in the steamy thick of summer here in NYC. Yesterday, I found myself home from work, sticky and cranky, eating butterscotch chips out of the freezer while all the fans in the house whirred at top speed. I was suddenly reminded of the first line of a poem I wrote in college, a little over ten years ago (during the month of January, oddly enough). Allow me...]
so hot the sunlight is wet - he, limp,
a rooftop landmark; turn left at the sunbather
from 3C-heavy head,
masses of hair groundcover pale flesh
He is his own roof garden.
moist ripeness, dewed with sweat.
hosed-down-reduced to
sodden melted sugars, pinkwhite fat
sopping starch, matted hair and tarpish skin
Nothing sprouts here, where this mess lies
Supine out of soil
Green plastic weave of lawn-chair raft
floats, mildewed, in that sun.
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