In a steamy cloud, lotus flowers arrive.
Out of season, this cool autumn morning,
drinking these pink flowers I am momentarily
here and in your summer water garden.
My hand holding your hand and heat.
She is a one-roomer – a Kafka character,
except they are never women – all alone.
Using all my blues to paint hers –
turquoise, cobalt, ultramarine, sapphire – her sad life
is still a cerulean past, indigo future.
from that summer when we were fifteen
that hot day behind the beach house
her bare shoulders, back, arms and legs –
when I suddenly realized she’s a woman
and it startled me. It startled me.
Women with fancy umbrellas to shade them
make New York City seem more foreign
to me than usual this blue-green day.
An exotic tiger with Chinese red luck
asks me for a photo with her.