the unfamiliar cadences of Indian music hovers over
men gardening graveyards like the hum of their lawnmowers
and magnolia petals--white moons--float on an aqua horizon
fine-boned hands swirl through them, and then rise up, slowly to let
crystals drip from heated fingertips onto dark skin
scented with cinnamon, amber, and synthetic green tea
over it all, moist lips carefully painted in drag-queen red
part for the reheated delight of Safeway's shrimp tempura
and murmur--through dusty song--tales of God and death and sex