This is what i think about
palpitating under 2 am peace and steady cement:
Between the newspaper office
and home by a ceremonial mountain
is a place called summer; our skin liquifies
every time we trespass in floral ties and birth certificates
umbrella-blessed against harsh winds or sunshine.
we have a way of protecting ourselves,
dematerializing the way stars do against nights of neon and insomnia
stars fading like dreams of outlanders
severed, misplaced, lost to the winds of an oceanic summer—
and we, glassy-eyed and lovestruck
with sick humor and ceremony, lose our sleep
by the hooks of our noses.