about each morning's fresh
mellow tide of hunches
that makes us forget
about the fallow
way each day must end?
The way lovestruck
birds risk blatant overtures
in still-bare branches
or the frisky wind
that rolls disenchanted
boxes down alleys everywhere
must serve as narcotic slivers
to the same hand that doles
out nightly dread;
for a fleeting moment,
last evening's shouts of panic
melt into golden tender air,
and the living there is easy
in the summer
in our heads.
