but, finally,
I seem to have done it.
Even my
dreams missed you last night.
Is this opera
taking place in an apartment
the size
of a coffin merely a del
usion? The out-of-fashion
curtains, pink floral, are billowing
at the neck
of a fan; one of two turned up
to the highest
speed so as to stir the otherwise
still and simmering
air at me all hours of the slow-burnt night.
It is sweltering
(which is to also say: I am sweltering)
and summer
is still over four months away.
