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Heat-engaged summer, like the claustrophobic tenor

within a prison. This is hyperforeignism.

Radiant beings are not always intelligent beings

perched with grandeur like an Alaskan Malamute.

I'm a professional of unprofessionalism. My eyes

tap windowpanes as if with an aikido point-of-view

like 'ñ' in the guise, or a wrong impression.

Friday, again, I'm a cartoon that's darkening

as soon as the child's eyes close completely shut.

Tender melancholy, I spit out shells of sunflower seeds.

If my maleness were on display, it would be

a revolving-door animation, a symbol, the way

a magician snickers before the curtain rises, the way

wind "picks up" making waves ripple. Futuristic Mona Lisa.

Memory, you beast with beats, I remember meeting

G. for the first time--we walked around a town square,

she picked up a dead bluebird & held it in her soft palms,

spreading its wings as my heart effortlessly sighed.