When she was dying

This morning, the Kentucky humidity is sauna like.
I feel as though my creativity is being drained.
I remember when I wrote poetry about the word–
back when the word was a woman, beautiful,
before she left me alone.

In those days, my Brazilian friend warned: woman beautiful
is dangerous; tastes like lead. I disguised her as the word.
She, like passion flowers in drought, desired to be rained
upon and left cool wet. He was a wild chemistry like
her own.