The stifling heat of the August summer
doesn’t reach us here-
only the droplets collecting on the windshield,
their rhythm spelling out
those five letters that stand for earthly delight.
The darkness of the night is holy,
the new wave on the radio preaching from its metallic pulpit.
The doors of the periwinkle Malibu
are mahogany cathedral doors,
opening into the sanctity of that moment.