New Orleans in September
is a mile from the sun and salted like a funeral veil
By the time you get my letter
the carnations will have wilted, their lustful flowers drooped with the heavy heart
of lips unkissed.
So I draw you near
with sins and whispers in the wind.
Be a feather or an arrow in this Indian summer
and make haste,
but if you visit, take the shady path,
so the only heat
you feel
will be
in the space between my arms.
There are minutes lost, and miles sought
living in the virginal valleys of the New World
something new, someone caught
beneath the sheets, a trap I’ve set
for myself.