Some soma with the air conditioner

can watch a drop go curve south over
caramel over her navel glimmering july bright

takeout on the chopsticks tangled in
knotted, hand-spun red hair
at the small of her back

the drop

like the salt mixing with fresh water, like
the sun burning off the fog, like japanese knots
and curries and the palimpsest of her skin
of markets of water-bearers
of rice sticky-sweet and vinegar
of silk scarves worked with cranes
and the straining of her wrists.