Heat and the thought of you turning into a puddle I think about arriving in time to do laundry wringing the vestigial moisture from the sheets and pouring you into a cup, rather a chalice that I might take to a shaman to have you reconstituted Tang like a magic myth what remains on the dry sheets is the outlines of a form, a topography seen from the aspect of a difference scale, a scale in which I do a moon walk, do I see that the landscape is the planet of the atmosphere of another planet it is what remains of the dream of modernism in the poetry of Stefan George, the golden clime of Blake, Donne’s bed against the unruly, the Paradise of Milton not lost for a moment time is suspended again until the next border comes to clean out the affects of the room. Clean sheets, new life.

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