As if you’d spent all Roman afternoon
inside the cool embrace of marble walls
of some palazzo, and then, all too soon,
it’s time to leave, they’re closing, hall by hall,
so you step out onto the August street,
the white sun blaring down, asphalt echoes
of sticky, stinky, visible waves of heat.
Sweat pours from you but has nowhere to go.

Or like that dish of mutton vindaloo,
(remember how the waiter shook his head,
anticipatory sympathy for you,
misguided Anglo girl), then how it spread,
internal spice combustion, your blood no
longer blood at all, but habanero.