Let’s call it a state of mind, sprawl
on the sofa and listen past the fan’s drone.
Crickets elevate the heavy stillness.
Cicadas whirr their electric dreams.
And when misery edges into our practiced peace,
there’s always the sweet relief
of a cold shower in late evening,
lying wet beneath the sheets.

Otherwise, what departure do we have these days?
A bus ticket slid under bulletproof glass.
Windows lifted until all the ghosts—
both of sinners and saints—escape.
The hum of the streetlight
and its dull florescence sprouting shadows
among the hulks of cars, the shifted shacks.
The sweet pine of gin unsettling ice.

One night, accidentally drunk on cheap wine,
I rode my bicycle home, floating
above the pavement. No breeze
but my speed. No road, my body catapulted
into something almost ecstasy, a tunnel of blue
quiet through the canopy of leaves.
No thoughts. Nothing but heat
steadying me.