Sitting in the sun I am a pale field.
          The president places a colored slide between me and the window. 
          Florence on my shirt, the Dardanelles at
my throat.
          A real sunset takes my place at 7, just as we finish our meal.
          The vase I stole in Japan drifts to the floor when the president slams
the curtains shut, like a newspaper. 
          A full magazine when I lift
my head.
          In the picture he and I look very cold, holding our pumpkins, unsatisfied. 
         Overexposure unhealthy, a bolt of fabric
thick against my white throat.
         My ears turning red, then gold, then vanishing altogether.