A simple twist, 
and the hose pours out a cool liquid, 
trickling down my wrist, 
like the icy arms of a tiny squid. 
Chills break the sun's heat, 
and vapors rising from my skin, 
smelling almost sweet, 
swirl beneath my sweathy chin. 
Totally soaked is my shirt, 
before I stop the flow, 
and muddy is the dirt, 
that dampens just below. 
Now, I light a match; 
there's a sudden Boom and flare; 
and no one's there to watch, 
as the flames consume my hair. 

April 22, 1985