A Transmission Ran Round the Sun and Came Back to Me

I decided to peek into my saved e-mails. I found a couple from around 2003 between me and someone who then dropped completely off the cliff. In these e-mails I found this poem. I remember this poem. I remember how the themes of heat burning ran like a conjoining ribbon through everything I wrote then. I forgot, however, about my "no capitalization ever" period. It had no title on it, and I'm going to leave it that way.



white light for children,
for the hot water warming pink
skin, stocking cotton putting them down,
doughy. white light for the soft,
locked away in piles of pillows,
kept keeping dreams, the feel of mink
for hair and empty towns,
carless. like a time before cars.

yellow light for flies and sweat.
poker chips and palmettos reclining,
referencing ancestors, loosening laughs,
thighs. yellow light whirrs fans with jagged blades,
blowing on wet skin, blowing on each other,
but still kept in heat, the shining
dull and drowsy eyed, but fired,
thoughtless. like moon songs and minutes.

yellow light is for fever;
a slow burn, a dripping heat.