“Heat” by Denis Johnson—
Here in the electric dusk your naked lover
tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.
It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,
Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,
streaming with hatred in the heat
as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin
to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,
and such a last light—full of spheres and zones.
August,
you’re just an erotic hallucination,
just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,
are you serious?—this large oven impersonating night,
this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,
the bogus moon of tenderness and magic
you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?
Biblioklept 
This poem is either hot or cool. I’m not sure which. Maybe it’s both. Like Eros.
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definitely both hot and cool, like a fire inside an igloo with break-dancing eskimo strippers.
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That makes me grin.
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remarkable.
an other’s assumptions have no bearing on one’s being.
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