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.