SEPTEMBER                8 April 1995

When I look at you
I see pieces
ready to fall off.
And I find ways
to touch you,
to press those
playdough pieces
back on.
You have become
dry like the
September deserts
with chapped lips
to kiss me,
rough stiff hands
to touch me,
And I bare it
with laughter
and hidden tears.
And I am
the goddess
of the water,
queen of the rain.
My azure winds
would wash the 
dust from your
sandy roman hair
if only you
would let me.
And your bite
as if into a
sweet red melon
thristy, wanton,
hard.
And we wrestle
gods of this
and that,
The battle royal.
I angry
that you won't
let me
flood your deserts.
And my
vegetarians teeth
bite into your
skin
and it cracks,
crumbles,
dirt clods
leaving an island
on my ocean.
And the great
Santa Anas
blow
to the sea
at only certain
times
of the year.