The languorous Mojave,
the equatorial latitudes of summer
in my own ivied yard.
I bake. My skull burns, I
am sawdust in the heat
and speak of comfort to all who will listen;
water, shade, breeze,
not tropics, no heat wave, no summer’s oven.
I was not made for this, me
of pallid skin and pale eyes.
I want an aura of protection,
a penumbra to shelter me,
a cottage of cool around my form,
longing to be incorporeal ‘til winter.
