Let the cool lake of your body rise out of itself—
the drip in your wrist become creek,
the sheet wrinkling steam
like a backroad after the summer rain.

Let your damp breath fog the window
at 3 a.m., the salt marsh of sweat
pool on your collarbone. Become
a county you cannot map.

Your body made faster and moving away—away
from the named things:
toward the unroofed night,
the crickets stitching heatsong.

And become the frisson waves of heat mirage—
that shimmer above the highway
where all shadow thins beautiful and black,
then vanishes. Become the static
between radio stations,
the buzz warp in the fluorescent light.

Let you become
a wildness slipped from its chain lead—
water finding a low point in the gully–
light bending around hillock and pavement–
up. And going.