It is too warm beneath the sheets; natural
fibers woven in with polyester
restrain her movement. Her breasts and belly
sweat-soaked and slick with desire for some
release from the confines, tangled linens.

She is feverish – from the heat outside?
Or her own memories of passion played
beneath a whirring ceiling fan, slightly
off-balance while keeping perfect rhythm
with the slow motion of their two bodies.

Too much sun; not enough water or salt,
she has drifted into the space between
consciousness and oblivion, lost there
waiting for the cooling touch of real life.