Friends, today is cold everywhere else
but hot again in Arizona,
the sun’s friendly flame on high,
the slow cooked poet on fire in Yuma.

Any winter warmth is celebratory weather.
Time to hold a festival for vegetables
and to buy plenty of snow cones,

and so, it is I sometimes think
of being naked, or in a grass skirt,
though the sun would destroy me

and I think of the coolness of outer space,
of the planetary rotations
each planet on the sun’s rotisserie,

of the black areas of gases
and expanding time, the tail of ice
on a comet that never thaws

Ladies and gentlemen,
throw away your coats,
and slip into an icy drink.

We are cooking with sun.