The cry I bring down from the hills
belongs to a girl still burning
inside my head. At daybreak she burns like a piece of paper.
She burns like foxfire
in a thigh-shaped valley.
A skirt of flames
dances around her
at dusk.
We stand with our hands hanging at our sides,
while she burns
like a sack of dry ice. She burns like oil on water.
She burns like a cattail torch
dipped in gasoline.
She glows like the fat tip
of a banker’s cigar,
silent as quicksilver. A tiger under a rainbow
at nightfall.
She burns like a shot glass of vodka.
She burns like a field of poppies
at the edge of a rainforest.
She rises like dragonsmoke
to my nostrils.
She burns like a burning bush
driven by a godawful wind.

[source...]

---

NYT image