Guitars after midnight without the moon
In small spaces between dawn and dark, I sit --
in narrow spaces away from glare and noise
round spaces where brittle traffic wind won’t fit --
I sit, my fingers wrapped in bird voice
my back heavy with palm tree rustle
as dull as thick as the neighbor’s cat. I sit
Wondering if those who plotted and prodded
are now ashamed or contentedly asleep, eyes
hooded under throws of silver sparkle lies.
A flirtation with style puts out the light, ends
with the decision of heat too brutal to record.
No distance to the sun. No ice to cool down.