The breeze whisked gentle against the curtains.
Getting subtler, subtler, and subtler.

The sun yawned.

Her window stayed open.

Then the breeze had all together hushed.
So the sun,
spilled into the bedroom.
The floor met the sun,
dancing there,
on the carpet.
Then on the dresser,
the walls,
the bed.
It gave out a long kaleidoscope of ginger and gold,
then distilled into whiskey on Ramona's wrist,

living on her islands. Here the sun became barley.
The hot bed sheet rolled back thinly,
her islands then became a continent.

Ramona lay her arm in a curve.
It was the undressed river of her mattress.
She was asleep in her bed and awoke in the hot lakes where the sun,
peering through the window,
shined in all day.
Now it had died down into a bronze knot of loosened sun.
She lay there watching the last of its exhale.