By mid-morning, the sun is so shrill, you cower; it glowers.
Your eyes hurt from the white light, a brightness that drains
water of its hue. Shades are old construction paper colours.
It’s too hot to breathe, or move. Sand like ground sauna rocks
burns bare soles. You’ve gone too far; you must lie down;
each step is a mile. Finally, your room, your bed, curtains closed,
At late afternoon, relief. Like a gas burner turned to low, the sun,
now a radiant blood orange, sings drink me as you watch it drop.
Your eyes relax in this brief level of light, a luminosity that refills
the well of hue. Flowers are red like chillies, pink as steamed shrimp.
You pluck one and stick it behind your ear. It’s nearly dusk,
but your body feels like daybreak. You smell colours, barbecue, beer.
You inhale it all.
From subTerrain issue #64 (Spring 2013)