There is strange music in her head,
a choir’s brew.
You cannot see it
but, in the bask of a sunchecked idle,
she drifts beyond ordinary logic
to dream of water
like melted locks,
like aquamarine flowers
silk to the touch
She could be Cleopatra on Valium,
calmly awaiting the tragic destiny of asp.
She could be Jackie O. sunbathing in Greece,
far far away from a slow motion drive in Dallas.
She could be Anne Sexton,
having escaped herself in a postcard
dispatched from Cairo or Capri
or Shangri-La, a cursory note
scrawled in haste–
Having a great time without you,