The mountain, hip bone of earth, shoots down a dry, hot wind
Rattles the skeleton city, held together by a series of pins and plastic cartilage.
We hang refrigerators, like art, In our bedroom windows
Who rattle clumsy tunes, instrumentals, transposing the fever of a ragged daze.
Between sheets of sea, in our urchin shells, we carve coolness into the shape of ocean waves
And sleep with mountain ranges wrapped around each other.
More photos here.