In A Heat Wave

I’d be happy in such a beautiful house,
it is simple and elegant --
it would be a happy place to be.
I feel its russet warmth,
pearlescent those lustrous walls
and ceiling

inviting touch at every turn in my bed --

lull about with a gigantic foot
out the door
bathing in moonlight or clothed in
a knitted sock flowing and red
as Marianne’s nose,

or a glass building molten
at sunset
with the fine powder of
boulevard magenta --

any breeze
would do just about now

as things stand barely propped
open by a stick
the fine forms that lava lamps and nebulas
insist upon dropping
on us
-- an image of those breakfast nooks
across frolicsome summers of the last century, it is empty but for
the light of this
time of day --
as if words alone could
shoehorn any

of these into
any more of those vibrating lines
which we have come to depend
so much upon.  Sound mountains
and setting free.