Blame It On Summer

that I smile too widely,

grinning really, and laugh

too loud and often; that I walk

with spring and sensual sway;

that I stretch myself and twist

like a cat

baking in the backyard

brightness; that my brain is sun-bleached,

all rule and thought boiled away, leaving

only sensory steam;

that my feverish eyes see strange dancing

flames in afternoon shadows

along the sides of streets and Bedouin oases, fragrant

with dates and goats and acrid desert waters,

in every suburban garden we pass

while you argue and drive

and I stare, heavy-brained with heat

and too aware of my own body

and every other;

that I take a lover,

brazenly, crazily,

too sun-stupid to be careful,

in my dreams.