The door opens.
The sun.
Light--everywhere, always
howling through the seams
it creeps under doors
and slowly, effortlessly
consumes bits of curtains
leaving it looking rather holy
with beams peaking through.

Step out.
A film of air-conditioned skin is peeled off
and replaced with a curt sizzle.
The heat climbs up your nose,
the heat does not hide or play kindly.
The heat does not worry of your dry skin--
it is a spotlight on chapped lips.

Step back in side.
The Arizona sun is an Alaskan winter.
I cocoon myself in dark sheets and Otter Pops.
I forfeited this battle many years ago.