by Gideon Burton
The air is sweet and thick, like mangoes juiced
and pulpy, orange-red, the clouds like strands
of sugar dangling hot and laced and loose
along the farthest mountains, tracing grand
solemnities in silence and in rust.
The air is warm and oily like the crush
of ripened olives salty with the rush
of Italy. The sky is haze and must
and tired breathing, sticky on the face.
The autos swim, they push the currents’ flow
around the sluggish globe as breezes trace
new patterns condensations couldn't know
in this retreat. I tongue the metal wind,
absorbing acids thick as time is thin.
Photo: flickr - Mike Joa