This heat clings, a wanting
child unmoved by ice cream
and too far flung from sleep.   

Air serious as a red
bandana soaked in steam
and draped over our mouths.  

This city balcony
no porch of sweet
tea and rocking chair.  

Hill breezes cannot
find me among this maze
of stiffled brick and steel.  

Some nights are like that:
The body’s red sweetness
in mismatched glasses,  

wondering what star
will blaze our name,
what deep root
calls home the bloom.