Never let go of that fiery sadness called desire.
-- Patti Smith
Melted butter is the taste
of the summertime,
the greasy warm feel
of heat.
In
granny's kitchen
they call the sounds
outside the screen door
cars and New York
suburbia.
I
liked to pretend
they were
horse hooves across
Mongolia
and Genghis Khan.
Here the air outside
smells like pudding
and gasoline.
Sometimes
I wondered how
a house pretty close
to the sea
could feel of warm
tar and cicada shells.
There were things to be
explored, things I liked
seeing.
My grandfather's studio
that got so hot
you thought you'd faint
was the place I went after
a swim at the beach.
I still felt the sand
on my skin
when I sat sweating in the nook
of fish-hooks and water-color
paintings.
And at night
I'd catch fireflies,
like little fairies,
in glass jars with holes poked in the lid.
Or watch the soft drone
of television
in evenings when you could hear
the cars rumble,
like the distant sea,
on the freeways headed
for the City.
