replica of the statue of liberty, made of
concrete, a beacon for weary motorists
stranded on route 66, endlessly
drifting in the dusty abyss, stands in front of entrance
with her readymade torch.

she mumbles into a phone, then hands us a key.
a tiny room for breakfast goes unused
and the swimming pool is cloudy,
the concrete walls reverberating
empty chlorine
pleasantries, a watered down
hotspring dream.

above the headboard
is a long mirror, spanning
the length of the smoky room's
back wall, a silvery strip
reflecting faded yellow wallpaper
with subtle unspecified flowers.

the side exit leads to an empty lot, long
grass growing out of neglected potholes, a cyclone fence
blocking off a direct route to the sonic
drive-thru.

the sky is orange, it's always been
orange, it always will be
orange, looming over distant mountains
with narcissistic strata.

you are sweet as honey
and warm like the sun

a gentle breeze on the plain green fields.


the light side of the moon;
a hotspring in winter.

you are the flowers that grow,
in a garden of weeds

you are the light that the world needs.

once seen, this
hillside--a chill stone, dropped
in a hotspring

Sitting in my warm tub
While the shower water falls across me
Reveling in my habitat
I think of my ancestors
All the way back to a little mammal
Who found a hotspring in the cold winter
And I twirl my foot in the stream