Back home, Thursdays are for the ordinary

the effects of which proliferate and take root in her consciousness

like when she ran a red light on that Thursday and then nothing

like when she smoked on 40th Street under a Miami night

surrounded by excess and flash and consumption

but no consequences

she climbed this elite structure and found a secret garden

like the ones she created as a child

but here she shed her clothes

studying the space her body takes up

how her curves brace the hard edges

how she only felt comfortable wrapped up in the violet

while the world below consumed itself

she breathed deeply and watched the shadows weave along the concrete. the yellow night, the flowers in the yard, and the old mercedes in the driveway. she walked with an acute awareness through the thick yellow, as one does in an unfamiliar place, making sure there was no echo to her solitary sendero, delighted in the tension of her surface relationship with this night.